Blood on the Tracks
by Carikube
Summary: Dean and Sam ride the subway for something that takes one victim per year. They didn’t take it seriously – until it takes Sam.
1. Chapter 1

Warnings: Violence, blood, nasty four letter words (that mostly start with 'f'), and blatant manipulation of medical terms and conditions that I hope only to hear of in fiction, but that are unfortunately real. 

Betaed: By the always amazing Em (A-Blackwinged-Bird). I don't know how I ever wrote without her, and I never want to have to find out. Girl, you are the best!

Indirect acknowledgement to: Connex (Melbourne's metropolitan train operator) for delaying my train one evening and allowing my overly active imagination to come up with this story. Who knew plot bunnies hid in subway tunnels!? All I can say is thanks Connex… you can delay my train any day.

Want to print this story to read off-line?: Go to my profile page, click on 'homepage' and you will find yourself at my Supernatural fanfiction site where I house my stories and provide a PDF (Adobe Acrobat) downloadable version of all completed work.

Enjoy the read… or is that ride?! ;-)**  
**

* * *

**BLOOD ON THE TRACKS  
**

**- Chapter One -  
**

"This is a bust, Sammy," Dean said, his voice low. "We kick this aluminium sardine at the next station and shag ass back to the car."

"It's still early." Sam hitched the sleeve of his jacket up. "Not even midnight. The last train leaves South Station at 12:30."

Dean braced himself against the swaying roll of the moving subway train and leaned forward. "We've been riding this set of rails for four nights. It looks like were marking territory." He lowered his voice further. "Given the way this caboose from hell stinks, I'd say someone's taking the whole marking territory thing just a little too literally."

"People are dying, Dean. What if they were alive before being hit by a train? Trapped in deep in the subway, maybe injured and with no way out." Sam's expression grew pained. "Can you imagine that?"

Dean could and he winced. "We don't know what happens, Sam. Maybe the rail authority is right. Maybe they're suicides."

"Every year, to the same date, give or take a day. And what makes the train stop each time? The remains are so deep in the tunnel system that the victims can't possibly have walked in of their own free will."

"It's one person each year. Maybe they walk through, or they bail from the train when it stops."

"Nine people over nine years. That's a lot of train bailing and coincidental suicides."

"It's possible."

"You really think that?"

Dean shrugged. "I don't know. It's not as though anything has happened yet. Isn't the window of opportunity closing?"

Sam sighed and scratched at the back of his neck. "Another couple of hours is hardly going to kill us."

"Maybe not, but some bloodshed seems likely." Dean looked past his brother to the trio of deliberately belligerent youth who stood in the middle doorway of the carriage, clothed in designer rip-offs and matching skull caps. They all bore a small circular tattoo on the middle finger. Gang members or wannabes. Regardless, the Crap-Caboose was their turf, and Dean and Sam had not been given formal invitations.

"Them again?"

"Don't you mean still? They've been shadowing us ever since we boarded the Eau-de-urine Express three hours ago." He abruptly stood. "C'mon, next carriage." He snagged Sam's jacket and tugged him to his feet. "Just whose idea was this riding the rails gig anyway?"

"Yours."

"Oh." Dean pursed his lips. "Great, well, it was a bad one."

They stepped into the last carriage, the interconnecting doors closed with a soft whoosh behind them.

"Fuck off," the lone, and clearly inebriated, passenger announced. He stood, swayed and paled, then landed with a soundless splat to the seat he had just vacated. Dean's nose twitched at the foul stench and his lips curved in disgust.

"Whatcha lookin' at?" the drunk said. He pushed up again, the torn and stained overcoat flapping. Dean took a relieved breath when the coat opened to reveal brown drawstring pants and a faded sweater. The man staggered and landed with a dull oomph on the opposite seat. "Aw, fuck it."

"Nice," Sam murmured.

"At least he has clothes. Jangly Joe from two nights back didn't, remember."

"I'd rather forget."

Dean nudged his brother forward. He shadowed the younger man, aware of the cool steel against his left flank and the knife in the sheath against his calf. He stopped and glanced back. The drunk had passed out, head lolled back, mouth agape and spittle running a loose trail from the corner of one lip. His body rocked in time with the train's motion. Dean looked past him. The three youths that had shadowed their progression through the eight carriages of the commuter train now stood in a loose huddle near the drunk. Dean and Sam could not go back without going past them. Through them, Dean realized as the taller male folded his arms across his chest and raised his chin. The kid leered and white teeth sparkled against the dark tan. As tall as Sam, about the same age and just as well built. His cronies had lost out on the height genes, the shortest one barely scraped five feet six, his face thin with youthful arrogance.

"We can take them," Sam said, his voice low.

"We don't need the heat." He glanced at the security camera and felt Sam shift and brace as the train took a curve in the subway. Train wheels screeched, the high pitched whine almost deafening.

The drunk lurched sidewards and splayed out on the row of seats. The taller of the three youth sniggered, said something to his buddies then strolled over and pulled the drunk up by the collar. The screeching stopped as the track straightened out.

"Fuck, he's pissed himself."

One uncoordinated arm flailed. "Get… off."

"Make me." A sharp shake, deft twist and the drunk landed on the floor on all fours.

Dean felt Sam tense. He extended an arm and held him back. "Sam," he said, his tone cautioning. "Not our problem."

Dean maintained a neutral expression as the youth smirked at him, leaned over and rifled through the homeless man's pockets. Seemingly unperturbed by the stench and the pathetic efforts made to fend him off, the arrogant pick-pocket retrieved a folded piece of card and held it upright.

"Well, lookie here. Who's this fine piece of ass?"

Photograph, Dean surmised. An old one at that, the brief flashes as it passed from one ruthless palm to another revealed a faded black and white image. Sepia toned with age. Wife. Daughter. Sister. Someone well loved. Dean silently cursed and eyed the security camera as the haggard man made a futile swipe for the photo.

The youth stepped back, waved the card, laughing as the drunk lurched and sprayed spittle. Wild desperate eyes followed the image.

"Aw, such a little cutie. Damn, I'd bang her. She's screaming for a foursome." The photo was thrust forward then passed between the three sets of hands. Just out of reach, the laughter hard and high.

Dean felt Sam press closer, his brother's breath warm against the back of his neck. Dean side shuffled, keeping Sam behind him. He cocked his head at the maliciously smirking kid who now held the photo, poised to tear it. The train jolted and the harsh drone and thrumming vibration edged up the tension.

"You gonna stop me?" The kid started a tear in the small piece of card, his eyes firmly locked with Dean's.

Another swipe that unbalanced and the drunk fell to the floor, splayed out, no longer cursing. Alcohol had a vicious way of combining anger and sorrow into one bitter mix. The man had hit the harder edge and began sobbing. Dean's stomach knotted. One shaky weather aged hand caught the kid's lower leg and the fingers wrapped and held. The kid kicked out, cursing as he failed to dislodge the grasp.

Momentarily distracted, the photo dropped to one hand as the thug bent forward and punched at the downed man. Before he straightened, Dean had him in a head lock, one arm around his neck, the other grappled the photo from his fingers. He squeezed, minimizing oxygen and stilling the struggling youth. The other two men froze with mouths agape. One took a step backwards.

Dean shoved the photo at his brother then gestured to the fallen man. "Sam, get him out of here."

Sam glanced at him and nodded tightly. Dean waited until his brother had bundled the drunk into the next carriage before he shoved the kid against the door, briefly tightened his strangle-hold then let him go. He stepped back, hands fisted and shoulders tight.

"Are we going to have any problems?"

Defiance flickered and Dean tightened his jaw, hitched one hand to rest against his hip. The action leafed open his jacket to reveal the gun tucked in the waistband of his jeans.

"See that camera up there," he said as the kid stared at the gun. "Up there." He thumbed toward the camera. The kid looked up. "I see whatever it does, and directional mics pick up the slightest sound. You even take a piss in a corner and I will know about it."

The man's Adam's apple bobbed as he scanned the walls and ceiling.

"You can't see them, dumb-ass."

Aside from a tightening of the mouth and a stiffening of the shoulders, the younger man took the verbal reprimand without a retort. Dean glanced at the kid's buddies. Both avoided eye contact.

"Good," Dean said. He stepped back. "I'll hear if you fart too. So no farting. Place stinks enough as it is."

He moved toward the carriage Sam had disappeared into. A sudden jolt made him grab at an overhead handrail. Lights flickered. Another jolt, sharper and harder.

Dean cursed and pitched toward the narrowed space that separated the rear carriage from the rest of the train. He saw Sam for a brief moment, his lanky kid brother clutched, white knuckled in the centre of the carriage, hands braced against the seats. Their gaze locked. Dean's heart skipped as he took in the stiffened hunch, the tense jaw and the pained brightness in his little brother's eyes. Coal dark obliterated everything a fraction of a second later. Dean floundered, confused, the visual image torn away before he truly grasped what it meant. He took a blind step, thrown off balance as the train jerked and the floor rolled like quicksand. Dean flailed, yelping as he fell backwards and landed hard on his butt.

Steel on steel screeched – a long, drawn wail of tortured metal. Heated scent seared his nostrils and made him gag.Dean scrambled to his feet and floundered through the blackness for the interconnecting doors. His knuckles hit jackpot, sharp pain his reward. Cursing, he felt for the manual release, wrenched at it and shoved the doors open wide. Air buffeted his face and the squeal of heated brakes made him cover his ears. Staggering, he lurched and almost tumbled, barely able to think against the stunning racket. His knee slammed into something hard. Wincing, he altered course, and pushed into the next carriage.

"Sammy?"

Vibration through the floor licked and cinched the hairs on the back of his neck while the screaming sound pierced his eardrums. He grunted as he came up against a smooth surface. Shaking hands and too sensitive fingers struggled to make sense of it as images from research and dismissed theories slithered through his mind.

_Train stops. Someone is taken. Weeks or months later, during routine maintenance, blood on the tracks, dessicated strips of meat, body parts. Suicide victims, the authorities determined, dismissed grieving relatives and re-opened the line time and time again. One per year hardly even newsworthy._

One hand hit the external door release and immediately recognized it. Pressure achieved no response. Prizing at the slit between the two leaves achieved the same. The train had not lost power – the doors firmly closed. He knew that even without touch. He would have heard the sound, and he had not. No-one could leave the train, at least not in any conventional way.

_Train stops. Someone is taken. _

Dean's skin prickled and a thought formed.

_Blood on the tracks._

His breath froze in his lungs.

… _pained brightness in his little brother's eyes._

Light pounded back with a sudden white hard intensity. Dean blinked and his thoughts splintered. He stared dumbly at the door. Face to face with his own slack-jawed, wide eyed, panic stricken reflection. He whirled. Locked on to the drunk who blinked, watery eyed, photo clutched in nicotine stained fingers. At the far end, a group of giggling teenagers, high on something and entirely unperturbed by what had just happened, continued chattering. Dean's blood pounded. He spun, wheeled in a full circle.

"Sam!"

The kids stopped talking. The drunk drooled. Sound stopped.

"Sammy!"

He noticed then that the momentum had ceased. No sound. No movement.

No Sam.

He was moving before his mind catalogued it all – a frantic search of every row of seats, every place his brother could be. It all passed as a mindless blur and Dean found himself back at the door, staring at his own desolate reflection.

Darkness swirled beyond the carriage, thick and unforgiving. He pried at the door, a change in the resonance of vibration through the floor warning him that the train would soon move.

"He's gone. Like Melanie."

Dean's gaze snapped to the dull eyed drunk, the photo clutched in the older man's hand. Tears streaked his face. Dean ignored the emotional display and stared at the photo. Not black and white, but faded and worn from over-use.

"Gone," the man said and his words trailed off into incoherent rambling.

Dean withdrew the Glock, deftly flicked it off safety and fired into the door. Someone screamed, someone cursed and the door held. He exhausted the shells, threw the gun down and tried to pry the doors open. Greater than usual force kept them closed. He stared into the inky blackness, saw something move. Or thought he did.

"He's gone," the drunk said, his voice surprisingly clear. "You'll never get him back."

_Blood on the tracks…. _

Dean's head swivelled, jerky and barely coordinated. The drunk stared at him with wetly glazed eyes. Dean struggled to breathe and grunted as the first hitch of movement pushed him slightly off balance.

"No!" He pounded against the door, spraying fine drops of blood against the glass. "C'mon, c'mon!"

… _dessicated strips of meat…. _

He moved back and kicked out. The metal didn't even dent.

… _body parts. _

Grunting, he rammed the door with his shoulder and clenched his jaw against the resultant flare of pain. The drunk appeared beside him in a wafted haze of aged sweat, alcohol and despair. Dean glared at him.

"He was a nice kid," the man said, his tone genuinely sympathetic.

"He _is_ a nice kid," Dean corrected hotly. He planted another solid kick to the door. Caught off balance as the train picked up speed, he fell, grunting as a horizontal bar caught him hard on his side. Winded, he dropped to his knees, his eyes burning with tears.

"You can have this carriage. That one's mine."

"I will get him back," he ground out, looking up.

"No you won't. No one does."

Dean jerked away from the man, one arm pressed against his throbbing side. He scrambled to the door, pressed hard against the glass as the train began to move.

Cupped hands blocked the internal light, transformed it into slivers as he stared at the tunnel wall. He saw it again: the briefest flash of wispy grey which could have been a trick of the eye or something else. He chose to believe it was something else – something he could hunt – something he could kill – some way to get his brother back.

It was now all he had.


	2. Chapter 2

**BLOOD ON THE TRACKS**

**- Chapter Two -**

"Jack Daniels," Dean said. He withdrew the top of the bottle from the crumpled brown paper bag until just the top of the label showed. It gleamed beneath the streetlights, his hand strategically placed to hide the uncapped top. Acquired from a trash can rather than a liquor store, Dean employed his best poker face to make it seem more than it was.

The man eyed the bottle, his lips parted and pasty tongue flicking with unabashed eagerness. He reached out. Dean withdrew the bottle and tucked it back into the bag. "We talk first."

"Nothing to say."

"Who's Melanie?"

Bloodshot eyes fixed on the brown bag and the tongue flicked nervously. "No-one."

Dean flattened his palms against his thighs and leaned close, his nostrils flaring at the highly pungent odor of unwashed and unkempt humanity. "She your wife? Girlfriend? Sister?"

"Why aren't you in jail?"

Dean drew back, scanned the darkened sidewalk, the shadowy park and the distant subway station, bright and lurid against the murky night. Emergency beacons lazily slapped red and blue against the concrete in a horrific distortion of phantasmagoria. It churned Dean's gut.

Two hours had passed. Two hours without Sam. Not long – but in essence an eternity because Dean really did not know if he would ever get his brother back.

The rail authority had an intensive search in place. His assistance and presence unwelcome. Technically prohibited – he had been physically removed twice. Warned off going back, and smart enough to know when not to push his luck. Useless over there, he had the drunk instead, and the memory of a wispy something that looked supernatural. He figured the supernatural thing and the drunk were connected.

"You shot up my carriage. Why aren't you in jail?"

Dean's attention jerked to the man, held for barely a second then snapped back to the station. He licked his lips and swallowed against the dryness in his mouth. "Security cameras don't work."

"You closed down my line. Took away my carriage." Spittle started flying as the volume increased. "It's my carriage. Mine. Not yours. You had no right."

Dean forced a tight lipped smile as several people looked across. Buzzards drawn to the scent of human tragedy, their eyes sparkling as the emergency beacons lit their faces. He looked away, shoved a trembling hand through his hair. "Sorry," he said, his tone clipped. "Can you keep it down?"

"Why?"

"Jack says so," he dropped his hand and nudged the brown bag. "Jack knows best, right?"

Eager lip licking again and the man lowered his voice. "What's your name?"

"What's yours?"

"I asked first."

Dean dropped his head, his thumb caressing the cell phone. "Dean."

"And the kid?"

"He's twenty-three years old, he's not a kid."

"I'm sixty-seven years old. He's a kid."

"Sam." Dean sucked in a breath. He blinked against a sudden sting. "My little brother."

The man nodded, his rheumy eyes growing suspiciously moist. "Damn." His gaze cast back to the brown bag and his pasty tongue flicked over chapped lips. "What do you want to know?"

"Your name would be a good start."

"Ted."

"And Melanie?"

"Daughter. You really going to give me that?" Ted gestured to the bag, his fingers claw like in the darkness. "You're not just yanking my chain?"

"You'll get it."

"Even if I know nothing?"

"Yes."

"Then you're an idiot."

Dean shrugged and his focus swung back to the closed subway station. An idiot was too generous a descriptor. "Melanie was not one of the nine victims," Dean said hoarsely. He cleared his throat and continued. "So why are you riding the rails?"

"She's down there."

Dean leaned forward. "What do you mean?"

"I need a drink," Ted said as he reached over and plucked at the bag. Dean slid it out of reach. "No, not until you tell me about Melanie."

"Hungry too."

Dean stared, his jaw tense and frustration burning his veins. He clutched at the phone, glanced at the screen, at Sam's name. Still no movement at the station. Still no call. No Sam. "I don't have food."

"There's a 24/7 burger place over there." Ted thumbed over his shoulder then scratched at his stringy hair – repositioning fleas and any number of other follicular friends.

Dean didn't work too hard to hide his disgust. "So?"

"Don't take a subtle hint, huh?"

"I'm not freakin' welfare."

"I'm not freakin'…" Ted paused, thinking and scratching. Stained and gnarled fingernails slid down the side of his face to prod at the unkempt beard. "…a walking encyclopedia," he finished, smirking. "I need food."

"You need a hell of a lot more than that," Dean muttered.

"I ain't deaf either."

"You're a pain in the ass."

"You want your brother back?"

Dean swallowed and stilled. His eyes locked on the drunkard as his heart beat out a dizzying tempo.

"Well maybe I can help or maybe I can't. You won't know unless you feed me." He grinned and Dean grimaced as rotted teeth and bleached pink gums leered at him.

"Fine. But you're coming with me."

"They don't like me in there."

"I don't give a fuck what they like. You're coming with me."

* * *

Two burgers, a half bucket of fries and a bottle of soda later, Ted belched and lay flat on his back on the grass. His legs swallowed by the shadows, his eyes dark sockets against translucent skin. Animated death, Dean thought sourly. "Jack now," the talking corpse said. 

Dean paced, breathing hard, his hands clenched into fists. "No Jack."

"No Sam."

Dean prowled to the reclined man and towered over him. "Do you know anything? Anything at all?" His voice broke. He scrubbed at his face and stepped back, his eyes burning.

"She killed herself."

"Figured as much. Don't tell me, she jumped in front of a train?"

Ted sat up, his shoulders slumped. "I was a bad father."

"Yeah, well." Dean started pacing again. "Where's she buried?"

"Cremated."

Dean stilled, his brow knitted. "All of her?"

Ted's face creased in pain. "You're all heart."

"I'll take that as a no." Dean crouched beside the older man. "She topped herself in the tunnel, right?"

Ted regarded him cautiously and his red rimmed eyes sparkled with wetness. "Yeah, she did. Hit the emergency button and forced the door. Got off the train without the driver knowing. No chance in hell of a train stopping that deep in the tunnel."

Dean swallowed back bile. Incomplete cremation – bits of the body would still be in the subway. Freakin' fantastic. "Why'd she do it?"

"Bad father."

"Usually more to it than that."

"Lonely. Confused. Typical twenty four year old."

"Bit old to be getting the pubescent blues."

"She was a good kid."

"She has my brother. What the hell is she planning on doing with him?"

"I don't know."

"See, that right there." He stabbed his finger at the older man. "Isn't Jack-worthy."

Ted's eyes widened. "What? But you promised."

Dean ignored the drunkard and punched the redial button his cell phone. The illuminated screen glowed in the darkness, Sam's name and number a bright pain all its own. Sucking in a breath, Dean crushed the phone to his ear as his free hand gouged against his thigh. It rang five times before Sam's voice came over the line. Recorded message. Self-torture, Dean realized as his throat constricted. He punched at the phone and ended the connection. His vision swam so badly that he could no longer see the subway or even the phone in his hand. Cursing, he wiped at the tears and turned to face Ted. "How can I get into that subway once the trains start up again?"

"They might find him before then."

"And pigs might fly. How do I get into the tunnel?"

Ted's grimy brow knitted. "Not going to do you any good."

"Not your problem. How do I get in?"

"On the train."

"Really? Originality plus," Dean said sarcastically. "Any other way?"

"Walk through the tunnel."

"Too far."

"Then you go the same way that Melanie did," Ted said quietly. "They'll start the trains back up tomorrow morning then—"

"When?"

"What?"

Dean clenched his fists. "The trains – what time will they start up?"

"Bit after five."

"Three hours from now?" Dean couldn't keep the stunned incredulity from his voice.

"You're the one with the Rolex, you tell me."

Dean's breath left in one shuddered exhalation. Three hours – too long… and not long enough. For a moment he considered challenging the rail authority to delay the reestablishment of train services. The option momentarily warmed him, sizzled and grained hope through his veins. It dissipated quickly, leaving him with the brutal realization that it would only waste time and change nothing. He had to take action, but not like that.

He abruptly stood, wavered and hugged his arms around his stomach. Queasy sourness licked the back of his throat. He swallowed convulsively and said, "Get up."

"I want Jack now."

"Get. Up."

A quick lick of the lips and a pendulum glance between Dean and the bottle. "Jack?"

"He's taking a walk. You're coming with."

"No."

"Not up for discussion." Dean pulled the older man up by his grimy lapels and steadied him until he found his balance. Ted's eyes widened and his jaw went slack. Warm fetid breath fanned Dean's face. "I'm not going to hurt you. But we're taking a walk, grabbing some stuff and…" he turned his face away, "we'll get you some breath mints. That breath of yours could kill."

"You think yours is any better?"

Dean's brow creased and he stepped back, rolled his shoulders. Took one last glance at the subway station then waved the bottle at Ted. "Jack's this way."

"I'm not a donkey and that's not a carrot," Ted said indignantly as he followed, his salivating gaze firmly locked on the brown paper bag.

"No, course you're not," Dean muttered under his breath.

They walked in silence, Dean driving a brutal pace while Ted puffed and grunted to keep up. Time passed with callous indifference. Somewhere far behind lay the subway station… and Sammy. His heart twisted. Well aware that Sam may already be dead, or too close to it to be saved. He shoved the thoughts aside. Straightened his shoulders and lengthened his stride. Ahead, the Impala, weapons, rituals and his little brother's only hope. Maybe he should have caught a cab. Glanced at the sweating, gasping and putrid man beside him, and realized that had not been an option.

Dark shadows loped like beasts against the sidewalk – malevolent and dangerous. The Glock rested against the small of Dean's back. The clip empty. The knife against his calf. He had gone in armed, prepared to protect himself – protect Sam. It had all gone to shit. Now Sam was trapped somewhere, probably hurt… possibly dying… maybe dead, because Dean had thought riding the rails for something that took one victim a year might be a good idea.

"You ever tried it?" Dean said suddenly, unable to stay alone in his head for a moment longer.

"Tried what?"

"Getting into the tunnel? Looking for Melanie?"

"Once."

Dean narrowed his eyes at the older man, but did not slow his pace. "And?"

"Rats." Ted shuddered and grunted. "Hate rats." He scratched at his thigh and then his stomach.

Separate flea colonies, Dean surmised.

"I chickened out," Ted added, his breath puffed and shallow. "Saw her though. Or thought I did."

"And you did nothing. Just let her go on taking people. Killing them!"

"I tried. Told people. They thought I was nuts."

Dean clenched his jaw as anger heated his face. He pulled in a shuddering breath. "How's she do it? How's she get them off the train? The power stays on, the doors don't open. So how does she do it?"

Ted's step faltered and his eyes shifted uneasily. "Don't know."

"You have some idea though," Dean pressed.

"No." Ted shoved his hands into the long pockets of his soiled overcoat and hunched his shoulders like a turtle retreating into its shell. "Not crazy. Saw what I saw. Not crazy."

"Ted—"

"No." Ted stopped abruptly, raised both hands away from his body, palms out. "Give me Jack. Now."

Dean licked his lips and scanned the quiet street. The Impala was parked a half block away and Dean could just see her. Right where he and Sam had left her. He forced his attention to the drunk and readjusted the bottle between his chest and elbow. "You'll get Jack," he said soothingly, "but I need to know what you saw."

"Nothing. I saw nothing." Ted's bloodshot eyes bored into Dean's hand. "Jack. Give me Jack."

"Ted, please."

"Not crazy," Ted said, then grimaced and shoved his hands back into his pockets. "Jack, gimme Jack."

Dean leaned in, grasped the older man's skeletal arms. "How does she do it? How did she take Sam?"

"Jack."

"Ted."

"Jack."

"Dammit." Dean let go, stepped back and locked his knees to keep himself upright. He grasped the neck of the bottle and held it forward. It shook, made a ghostly dancing shadow against the wall from the overhead streetlight. Ted made an uncoordinated grab for the liquor and Dean whisked it back. He forced a pallid smile.

"Jack's this way," he said, then spun and broke into a sprint, confident that his drunkard donkey would faithfully follow. He had a bag of weapons, packed with anything and everything he thought may work, before Ted stopped beside the car.

"Jack now," Ted said expectantly, his words clogged by an emphysemic wheeze.

"Later."

"Now."

"Get in."

"Nice car."

Dean hesitated and raked his gaze over the disheveled figure.

"Give me Jack and I'll walk back," Ted said, as though able to read Dean's mind.

"Get in and try not to stink too much. And don't touch anything."

Ted grimaced, tottered on shaky legs to the passenger door and slumped into the front seat. He had a cassette in the deck and the music up before Dean slid in behind the wheel. Dean stared, slack jawed, at his passenger.

"Good song," Ted yelled over the music, "but The Stones were better."

"You've got to be kidding me," Dean muttered. He turned the key in the ignition and gunned the engine. Left a smear of rubber on the pavement as he took off. Ted chortled, swiped up the volume and began singing along to Foreigner. Dean knew then that he had lost more than his kid brother – he had lost his mind. No way could any of this be real.

Reality crashed back when he parked the car a block from South Central station and shut off the stereo. He stared dumbly at the station, unable to react to the absence of lights or of activity. The search had been terminated. They had not found Sam. He should confirm it, but couldn't move. Could barely even breathe.

"The trains will start in an hour. I can show you where you need to get off," Ted said cautiously, his too bright eyes showing more intelligence and compassion than they had all night. "The place where she died – where your brother disappeared." He paused and licked his lips. "Would that be Jack-worthy?"

"Yeah," Dean said against the lump in his throat. "That'd be Jack-worthy."


	3. Chapter 3

**BLOOD ON THE TRACKS  
**

**- Chapter Three -**

* * *

"You need to relax. You're too tense."

Sam shifted, stilled by pain and cold. He lay on his side, curled into a rough ball, lungs wet, breaths agonizingly sharp and rich coppery warmth flooding his mouth. Dull light met his open eyes, but he lacked the strength to focus. Something moved into his line of sight and he flinched as cold lit his arm and fired upwards. He opened his mouth to scream, but gurgled instead, driven into an oxygen deprived gasping fit.

"Stay still. You're moving too much."

The words hung over him: a soft command that he should obey, but could not. Writhing, Sam teetered on the edge of consciousness, his ears ringing and pulse frighteningly rapid. It felt like his head might explode.

"Do you have a low pain tolerance?" The voice asked crisply. It paused then added, "You must have. Because it's really not that bad."

He didn't know how to answer so he concentrated just on breathing. Except that was torture in of itself.

Stabbed. He must have been stabbed. Would have remembered a gunshot, or a fall. But a knife to the chest, that'd creep up on you. If he could coordinate his recalcitrant limbs, he could check for impalement or gaping wounds. But he didn't move. Couldn't. Shards of glass seemed to have shredded his chest, ripped open his lungs – ruined something deep inside of him. His mind roamed and thoughts displaced as every breath threatened to be his last.

"I'm Melanie," the voice said, sounding vaguely frustrated now. "What's your name?"

He tried not to panic, to give in to the mystifying horror of exhaling his own blood.

"You were nice to my father. Why aren't you being nice to me?"

Sam shuddered and burbled as blood ran from his lips. It pooled against his cheek in a sticky coagulated and obscenely warm patch.

"What is your name?"

Harsh insistence underlay the words and Sam blinked and fought to focus. Shivering, he took in the small space, a room without walls, close distorted darkness that suggested a near boundary. Movement again, a wispy shape and something that might have been a face, but the edges seemed off, the contours too soft. He remembered then that he had woken before. Several times, each as foggy as the last. Pain his companion each and every time. Memories fogged and twisted, surreal.

"You are being childish about this. You're not hurt. There's not even a mark on you."

Features formed and Sam flinched as a face appeared. Feminine and almost pretty but for the too cold eyes. Melanie, Sam associated absently. Another breath, grating and raw. He writhed weakly, oxygen starved and increasingly afraid. He struggled to put it all together in his mind, to figure out what had happened, but it lay just out of reach. Lost in the muddled confusion of short circuiting synapses and too much pain. So he stared at this woman who seemed human, but who he knew was not.

Melanie's soulless eyes bored into his, raked over his face, across his chest, over his torso and down his legs. Disapproval pulled at her peach colored lips, dipped her thin eyebrows and made her hand shake as she shoved hair away from her face. Black painted fingernails caught in the long red strands and in the muted light, her hair looked like blood.

"I didn't bring you here for you to ignore me." A sharp jab against his shoulder and Sam's mind spiraled into a twisted vortex of pain. "You're just like all the rest."

Her voice echoed, following him down. Just before the freefall splattered his consciousness, bile licked its way up his esophagus. The bitter sensation shocked him back to a veiled plain of awareness.

Others.

There were others.

It made sense. He remembered enough for the puzzle pieces to fit into place. The train, the drunk, the thugs… Dean.

He held his breath and pushed his upper body into a vertical position –even found a surface to lean against. Didn't know what it was and didn't care. Forced to take a breath then, all his hard work almost came undone as pain skewered through his chest with the intensity of a bladed arc welder. Blinking and panting, his gaze traveled to hers. Their eyes locked and he felt a cold sweep of fear as he took in the impassively neutral, unimpressed, even slightly disgusted look in her brown eyes.

Nine others.

All dead now.

Blood on the tracks.

He got it then. In the midst of choking on blood, he figured it out. There were no others – at least not here and now. It wasn't the MO. Only one victim every year. He had just become the tenth. She had done this. Somehow. He peered down, the muscles of his neck trembling as he looked at his chest. No blood and gore. No mortal gaping wound. Nothing to explain the shocking pain.

He tried to coordinate his oxygen starved limbs so that he could stand. Rasping and gurgling, he succeeded only in toppling to his side where his left shoulder slammed into the floor. One leg came up automatically, but all movement ended there.

She reached out and he flinched as cold hands cupped the side of his face, ran through his hair. The contact burned like dry ice on his bare skin and his eyes involuntarily burned with tears.

"I've been here so long," she said wistfully.

Ten years, Sam thought, the realization skewering him. He had so many questions, but they slithered just out of reach, so he just drooled blood in a thin, viscous stream. And wondered just how long until he couldn't even do that.

She thumbed his lips – burned the tender skin with her ice cold touch. Her hand slipped to his chest, dipped beneath his shirt, traced an ice cold path along his collarbone.

He retracted, pulling into himself. "Don't."

Hurt flashed across her face as his rejection registered. She shifted back, a dark scowl deepening the lines on her forehead. Her head cocked to the side and one hand toyed with her hair, fingering the long strands, twirling them into rough ringlets.

"Aren't I pretty enough for you? Not good enough?" She abruptly stood, arms akimbo. "Not. Good. Enough."

Sam tasted bile, mixed with the blood. He pushed himself up, panting as he struggled to manipulate his rubbery limbs. The deranged spirit, ghost, whatever the hell it was, scaled up her verbal rampage. She moved quickly, shimmering and splitting across the small space. Disappearing at times, only to reappear, her voice screeching in frustrated rage. Then she stopped. Appeared right before him, stiff arms locked at her sides, her waxen features pulled tight.

"Not. Good. Enough," she said, her tone disconcertingly composed. "Emory would know what to do. But Emory is not here. Only me. You have me. Only me. Not. Good. Enough."

Sam made it to his feet. Pushed off before he could think and kept one hand against the wall to test the confines of his prison. She continued to ramble, seemingly having a two sided conversation with an invisible third person. As it bore on, the pitch increased, scaling upwards into a demented rant that shattered the unearthly silence while his own wetly saturated gasps featured as a perverse accompaniment.

He dragged himself forward, even when he could no longer feel his feet, just kept moving – one hand on the wall, the other held outwards, in defense and for balance.

Not a room. Not a cage. But a defined space. Her space. Formless and impenetrable. No way out. But he knew that even before he fell and could move no more.

Her wailing rampage bore on and on. Sam gave up looking, tried talking instead, but managed only a feeble grunt that made no sense even to himself. Apparently though, she heard it because she reappeared right in his face, pushed him against the wall and held him there.

"Not good enough," she said, and the whisper chilled him more than the screaming had. She leaned closer, wrapped her fingers around the collar of his shirt and pushed him down. "Emory would fix this. But Emory is not here."

Sam slid toward unconsciousness. Might have made it. Wasn't quite sure. He came to with a jerk. Melanie seated beside him, running frigid fingers through his hair. He lashed out, connected with her, shocked when she tipped back, screeched and vanished.

Trembling, Sam made it to his knees. Fell back on his haunches, his arms limp at his sides and head hanging. Blood hung from his lips in loose congealed ribbons.

Somewhere in there he vagued out. Came to on his knees, forehead pressed against the wall, his neck aching and one arm caught between the wall and his body. Tried to move and found he could not. Wedged awkwardly, blinking and burbling, his lungs blood-drenched. Surprised he could even breathe at all. It felt wrong. Unnatural. As though he had never been meant to breathe air in the first place.

He passed out again.

* * *

When he woke, he knew in advance that it was over. Sensed it, but couldn't figure how. Proof came in the throaty rumble of a train, the echo of a vibration through the floor, through his body, so close and loud that his teeth chattered. Fear prompted movement, but his oxygen denied body mocked him. Further insult came in Melanie's cold embrace – the ease with which she stilled him and clucked her tongue as he gurgled and gasped.

"You brought this upon yourself. I meant you no harm. It's all your own fault."

Maybe it was, but he couldn't figure out exactly how, so he struggled, exhausted himself too easily and then glared sullenly at her.

She arched an eyebrow, touched his lips and rubbed his blood between forefinger and thumb. "You should have come willingly then there never would have been a transporter accident. Never would have been a mistake. Never would have been… this."

"What? What did you… do…" He couldn't finish, collapsed into a coughing fit that sprayed blood and fragmented his already screwed consciousness.

"This has to stop."

She meant the blood and the bleeding. She meant him.

He struggled to his knees. Maybe even made it to his feet. Wasn't exactly sure. Every breath left him gasping for more, and plaintively screaming for less. Breathing air had ceased to become a viable option the moment she had taken him from the train. But he still tried, because he feared the alternative.

"What did you do… to me?"

She cocked her head at him. Smiled sweetly with her all too human face and the blood red hair that hung like disemboweled entrails. He fell back against the wall. Slid down, the back of his head thumping against the rough bricks. Still he stared at her, demanded she give him answers, because it's all he could do.

"I thought you were stronger than this."

He thought he was too.

Her words and his own thoughts coalesced beneath the roar of a commuter train, so close it seemed the wheels rushed right by his head. Impossible though, because he had already navigated his small prison and there was no way out. He knew that, yet still his tenuous bravado broke, pulsed a wave of terrified panic that must have knocked him out because he woke in darkness. Pitch black darkness.

He blinked lazily and grimaced as he drew in a half breath and responded to the immediate pain. He blundered through the catalogue of sensations: internal and external. Couldn't make much sense of any of them, but knew that Melanie had gone – discarded him. That had significance and it made his heart beat faster, but though he struggled to understand, he couldn't piece it all together. All he knew was that something felt dangerously different, the environment changed – no longer the small dark space that he vaguely understood as an enclosed cavity beside the track. This new space felt different, broader, inherently dangerous, though he struggled to understand how.

A droned pitch, a repetitive rattle and he weakly lifted his head in confusion. The sensation intensified. Darkness shaded out to a planed grey. Sam blinked and his skin crawled. White light licked the concrete walls, growing as it shouldered out the gloom. Sam stared, dry mouthed and numb limbed. Sallow heat sparked the rails, lighting the steel with a frosted glare.

His eyes widened in horrified awe as sound thrummed against his eardrums, beating in time with the glaring white light. Harder and sharper than a bass drum, it echoed in his chest, through the hollow pain in his lungs. Coming nearer. Closer. Making him work harder for every breath. Making it impossible for his oxygen starved body to move.

As he stared in horrified awe at the approaching train, it all became alarmingly clear. What she had done, how she had done it, and how it would end. With it came the terrifying reality that the knowledge came too late.


	4. Chapter 4

AN: To everyone who has reviewed thus far, I'm deliriously happy to have received such amazing support. Thank you!

Warning: This chapter contains some ickiness (I'm not sure if that's even a word). Given that we're dealing with trains, a subway and Sam, it shouldn't come as a great surprise, but just in case. ... I actually expect that you'll get to the chapter's end and be more upset by yet another cliffy than by what happens to our youngest Winchester, however, I thought it best to warn you that there is ickiness ahead..

Oh, and the site is once again playing funnies with email alerts, so if you've reviewed and I've not responded, please know that my response is clogged up within the bowels of the site and will surface eventually.

**BLOOD ON THE TRACKS  
**

**- Chapter Four -**

* * *

Dean hit the emergency stop on the train, rode through the grated deceleration then forced the door. Ted held it open and caught his arm. 

"The bottle's empty, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Sorry."

"I'm not crazy."

"Your train doesn't stop at all the stations either."

Ted nodded and grimaced. "Neither would yours in the same circumstance."

Dean deliberately kept his expression neutral, his eyes locked with the older man's as Ted took in a breath.

"Stay to the walkway on the side. You'll see the trains coming. Grey against the black. But they won't see you. The driver's don't pay attention. Even if they do, they can't stop. It's relatively safe if you keep your head about you."

"Okay."

"It's two Jack's now." Ted thumbed over his shoulder to the bottle bag Dean had left on the seat. "And a Jim too."

Dean smiled faintly. "Thanks."

"Go. And tell me if you see her." Ted's eyes shone in the artificial light. "I'll be here. This is my carriage." His fingers tightened, scrunched into Dean's leather jacket. He licked his lips, hesitated then abruptly let go. "Get. Before they start this silver slug moving. And don't touch the third rail, it's opposite the walkway. Make sure you tell me if you see her. Promise."

"Promise," Dean said thickly. He jumped from the carriage and hit the ground before grabbing the weapons bag and making his way to the end of the train. He kept moving beyond it, relying on the red glow from the rear of the train to guide him. He glanced back, his stomach knotted as he took in the silver beast that hawked the yawning tunnel. The sight frayed his already shot nerves and he withdrew a flashlight, wiped at it with shaky hands and grasped it tightly by his side. Behind him, the train's ominous idle changed pitch as the mechanical beast whirred and shunted forward.

Deep breaths helped to still the fear to a tolerable level, but still his mind worked at a dizzying pace. He had twenty minutes between trains, the intervals less as the peak commuting kicked in. Any one of those trains could take Sam down. The one he had disembarked may already have. Sam could already be dead.

He started humming, deliberately jarring and distracting his morbid thoughts. He wiped sweaty hands on the thighs of his jeans and flicked the flashlight on. The beam danced crazily as his hand shook.

"Sam," he called, throaty and choked. His heart fluttered, buoyed by false hope that ebbed to a cold despair. Shivering, he moved deeper into the tunnel, keeping track of the time, the fear nestling deeper and darker as the minutes wore on and empty sheer walls met the searching beam of the flashlight.

"Sam."

He wiped sweat from his face and shivered again, his back cramping as the cold drove right to his core.

"Sammy!"

The name echoed back, bounced and tumbled down the darkened walls of the subway tunnel. Concrete closed in on all sides and the steel rail line snaked and twisted, the light playing along the walls as ghoulish shadows.

"Sammy, this is some freakish shit. I mean, c'mon, dude. Cut me a break here and show your scrawny ass so we can ditch this freakin' town. The girls aren't even pretty. And—"

Sound behind him made Dean spin. Breathing hard, he shone the flashlight and leaned forward.

"Sam?"

One step. Cautious and measured. The sound came again. Scuttling. The torch beam picked up the scurrying rodent a second later. Dean back-stepped.

"Man, that is so not cool."

He kept going. Deeper into the tunnel. Darkness wrapped around him like a death shroud, close and cold, prickled the hair on his arms, raised the hackles on his neck. Seriously freaked him out. Plains and trains. Hated them both. Hated the loss of control. What the hell had he been thinking? In reflection, maybe he had not. It sure as hell made no sense now.

Step after step. Knees locked to dislodge the shuddering tremors that were not entirely attributable to the cold. It ate away at his courage, made his mind crawl with images that he could not bear to witness, but could not entirely shake.

"Sam! You hearin' me. I told you last time I wasn't coming after you if you got your ass kidnapped. And I'm not." He grimaced sourly, and added, his voice deceptively quiet, "Sammy, please."

The deep black lost depth, took on a hazy shadowed grey. Dean noticed it and squinted in an effort to determine the significance. His footfalls slapped against the subway floor, faintly determined and sharply mocking.

"Sam," he called and hated the way his voice shook. Hated the lack of a response even more.

Intense light speared the darkness, chased shadows on the walls. Dean stared at it, his heart pounding. Beyond the pathetic beam of light that his torch provided, the subway tunnel curved. Half a mile, probably a lot less. Distance perception seemed to have abandoned him, as had everything else.

Struck dumb, Dean stood rooted to the spot as the train breached the curve and barreled toward him. Seconds. Mere seconds. Ten maybe fifteen if the sadistic fates had any part in it. Not long enough.

He spun, legs tangled and he fell. Safety lay less than two feet away in the narrow walkway that ran the length of the subway tunnel. Fear crippled him as light seared. He saw it then. A dark shape deeper in the tunnel, closer to the oncoming train. On the tracks.

"Oh sweet Jesus, no."

He closed the distance. Fell to his knees. Sam lay on his side, one arm outstretched, almost touching the live third rail. His face, pale and grey, his body cold and still. The train bore down, bathed them both in a halo of cold, vicious light.

Dean threw the weapon's bag to the side. Flashlight on top. Grabbed Sam under the armpits and grunted as the train screamed its approach.

Too slow, wouldn't get Sam's legs clear in time.

He dropped to his knees, scooped his arms beneath his brother's unconscious form, and rolled him. Sam's face: white, bloodless, the lips blue – maybe already dead. Dean realized that for the task at hand it did not matter.

In a burst of adrenalin, he got Sam's body clear, tucked the younger man's legs in, and his arms, and threw himself on top as the train screamed past. Burning steel seared Dean's nostrils, the unholy roar flaring his flight instincts so badly that he screamed and almost bolted in blind panic. Only Sam's body beneath him kept him anchored. He buried his face in Sam's hair and wondered what on earth shampoo his kid brother used. Made a mental reminder to tease the hell out of him later.

If there was a later.

The scream of tortured metal bore on and on. Dean clamped his jaw. Muscles burned with the frenetic need to cut and run. Fast. Blindly. Away from the shriek of steel on steel. Dean felt his sanity slip away. Felt the inner limits breached, the slimy slip of self control worn down.

Then it was over. The ping of contracting steel and the hiss of the train as it ploughed away. Darkness closed in, became complete again and sound fell back. Silence reigned and for a long moment Dean could not move. Then sound returned. Breaths. Rasped and wet. Constricted. Unnatural. Not his own.

Dean tensed, pushed up and ran a shaky, fumbled hand across his brother's face. He held his breath as a tortured emphysemic sound battered against his ears. If he didn't know better, he would have sworn that Ted had followed him, rasping and gasping his way through the pitch black tunnel.

Not Ted. Sam.

Dean lurched back, fumbled and cursed as he reached for the torch. Found it and flicked it on. Raked the trembling beam over his brother's body, and locked on his face. His mouth went dry and something stabbed at his heart, made him wince in pain. Sam looked dead. His lips tinged blue, dried blood against his pale flesh. If it weren't for the awful sounds he made as he breathed, Dean would have believed him gone.

"Oh God, Sam, what did that bitch do to you?" His fingers ghosted – unsure – before seeking purpose as they moved to Sam's neck. Felt for a pulse, through the dried blood and the frigid clamminess. His own breath caught, burned in his lungs, as he registered a flutter against his fingertips.

He shoved the torch under his chin, the beam wavering madly as he checked for wounds. Front and back. Found no blood, no bruising. Nothing. Sam's chest bore no damage, neither did his back. Dean put the torch to one side and gently pulled his brother up, held him upright, both arms around his chest, Sam's chin on his shoulder. Thought maybe it might help Sam to breathe. It didn't. And neither did it wake him.

Shaking, Dean lay his brother on his side, in the recovery position, back pressed hard against the tunnel wall, his knees slightly bent and arms pulled close to his body. He shone the torch on his brother's face, the beam highlighting the blue tinged lips.

It made no sense. Sam was desperately ill, yet appeared physically unharmed. As though something had hurt him from the inside out. Dean knew that something had been Ted's dead daughter. He also knew that the failure of the train driver's to see the victims in the tunnel – to see he and his brother – was Melanie's doing as well. Somehow she hid them from sight, made rescue impossible. Dean was on his own.

He slung the weapon's bag over one shoulder, slid one arm beneath Sam's knees and the other around his back and hefted him into a cradled hold – a fireman's carry too risky with Sam's already compromised lungs. Dean's shoulders strained, the muscles in his arms burned and his heart pounded wildly as he staggered under the younger man's full weight. He felt it, and ignored it. Aware only of his little brother's head against his shoulder, the rough fanned breaths and the awful sound that accompanied every shallow exhalation.

He started walking and made some progress until he misjudged the shadows. He turned into the path of a train, struck stone cold with how close it was. Shoved Sam to the concrete walkway. Kneed his legs in, his arms, his head. Felt the roar of air and the brush of sparked steel less than a single heart-beat later.

Dean pressed his face to Sam's shoulder, his mouth close to Sam's ear. He started a soothing monologue to his sibling, a mindless collection of garbage from their childhood, happier times, anything other than the shocking reality of being trapped deep in a subway tunnel with hundreds of tons of metal bearing down.

The even drawl kept going even when he could no longer hear himself think. Even as panic flared and he clawed the concrete beneath them in an attempt to hold onto his sanity. Still, he kept talking, his eyes squeezed shut as sweat trickled down his neck and his heart pounded so wildly that it felt like it could burst out of his chest.

At one point Sam cried out, a weak mewed sound that Dean felt more than heard. Dean assumed it was the horror of the situation and soothed him with a hand through his hair and soft words that neither he nor his brother could hear. Sam soon went limp, consumed by unconsciousness and Dean almost envied him.

When the train finally passed, Dean almost collapsed on his sibling – but didn't, because Sam's tenuous hold on life was already too precarious and crushing him was not an option. So he pushed up on jellied limbs, retrieved the flashlight and checked Sam. Expected to find him unharmed – unchanged. Unprepared for the shocking truth.

Sam's left hand spewed blood. The fingers – all four of them – severed. It did not compute. Not really. So Dean stared blindly, his mouth filled with sourness as Sam's blood stained the concrete in a slowly growing pool of thick red gore.

Logic and reasoning told Dean what had happened. In his exhaustion and terror, Dean had not pulled Sam's limbs in close enough. Had left one of his brother's long arms vulnerable. Knew then why Sam had partially roused, and he also knew that he might as well have taken to Sam with a meat axe. The outcome and responsibility just the same.

He awkwardly and numbly shucked out of his jacket and shirt and used the soft cotton tee to bandage Sam's hand. Blood slowly soaked through the white fabric and in the glare of the torchlight, the sight made Dean gag. Sam did not rouse and continued to breathe like an asthmatic ninety year old.

Dean moved back and found the tips of his brother's fingers, all four of them. Neatly severed, slightly crushed, perfect for reattachment. Dean didn't know why he popped them in a plastic baggie and stuck them in the weapon's bag because by the time he got Sam out, if he was even still alive, they would be useless.

Dean staggered several feet down the track and threw up. While hurling his guts out, he realized that now he had no choice. He had to leave Sam and go on alone for help. Two miles to South Central. He could walk it. He did not want to.

He wiped at his mouth, blinked to clear his blurred vision, snagged the torch and returned to Sam. The younger man had not moved and hadn't stopped breathing. If the awful wet sound could be classified as that. As he looked down at his brother and felt the vibration through the track from an approaching train, Dean felt truly helpless.

Shadowed grey brought his head up and Dean watched in horrified dismay as another train approached. The leading edge of air slapped his face, struck his bare chest and made him shiver. He grabbed his shirt and gently laid it over his brother. Placed the jacket on top and tucked it around Sam's too still form. He carefully pulled Sam's long limbs in close. Checked and double checked. Tugged Sam's injured hand close to his own chest and hugged it, elevating the limb to reduce blood loss. At least that's the reasoning he gave himself.

He stayed with his brother as the train bore down on them. Felt the younger man's life force as it slowly faded. Questioned whether he should stay and give up. Accept the inevitable. Be with Sam when he died. Thought he owed it to him – to himself.

He screamed his horror and pain as the train shrieked in tortured harmony. Beneath him, Sam fought for life and gurgled in slow death. Dean made his decision then. The only choice really, the only way Sam would have a chance.

When the next train came, Dean was too far away to turn back. Too late to reconsider his decision. He hit the side of the wall, pressed himself against the floor of the narrow walkway and screamed as the metal torched the tunnel and ripped his sanity apart. Even when it had long passed, Dean remained where he lay, assaulted by images of what might have happened deeper in the tunnel. If Sam had roused. If he had regained consciousness and panicked.

He pushed himself up and hugged his arms around himself. Hunch shouldered, he scoured the thoughts from his mind and started running. Unkempt and torturous, every footfall taking him further away from his brother and deeper into the certainty that he had made the wrong choice.

Those thoughts corrupted him and only when he had ran too long and fallen to many times, did Dean realize that he hadn't had to shelter from another train. He turned and stared into the black abyss, his torch beam cutting a pathetic swathe against the deeper gloom.

Something had stopped the trains. He glanced at his watch. Over thirty minutes since the last service. He swallowed convulsively, a panicked chill going right up his spine.

"Sam," he called softly. Jerked his head like a demented owl, unsure of which way to go. He had to be close to South Central. Closer to the station than to Sam.

What could have stopped the trains?

Dean tugged on his lower lip, breathing hard, his blood pounding. Fists clenched and unclenched as he considered his options.

_The driver's don't pay attention. Even if they do, they can't stop. _

Ted's words hit him in the gut. Floored him. Dean's assumption that Melanie hid the victims must have been wrong. Too supernatural. Too implausible.

Dean stumbled, staggered and fell. Knew then that Sam had woken. Somehow. Had been on the track. The driver had seen him – but too late. No way could the train have stopped. No chance in hell.


	5. Chapter 5

AN: Again, to everyone who has reviewed. You guys are amazing and so very kind! Unfortunately I'm having some difficulty saying the same thing about the site at the moment. Still no email alerts. I've forgotten what those lovely little things were even like. As I said last chapter, everyone who has reviewed will (once the site starts working again) have a personal response from me. Of course it will be hideously out of date by the time you get it, but please know that EVERY review I receive is appreciated! And, if you survived last chapter and the finger business, then the rest of the story should be plain sailing (wink).

**BLOOD ON THE TRACKS**

**- Chapter Five -**

* * *

Dean stared blankly at the brightly lit scene. Someone had draped a blanket over his shoulders, sat him down, clamped a blood pressure cuff around one bicep. Said something. Asked him questions. He might have responded, but couldn't remember. 

"Did you see her?"

Dean swallowed convulsively and looked up. Ted the stinky drunk hovered right in his field of view. Awaiting a response, all bright eyed and eager. Dean pulled the blanket closer and dropped his gaze. Once again fixed on Sam. Still, silent… and whole. Or mostly. Remembered then. Pushed to his feet and wavered his way across the track to the weapons bag. Pulled out the baggie and wordlessly gave it to the blonde haired paramedic. One of them. They all seemed blonde. Realized then that the light made it seem so. They had kept the train lights on. As well as those from the maintenance vehicle that had met him in the tunnel, taken him back to his brother. That seemed an eternity ago. But could hardly have been more than fifteen minutes.

"We're ready to move out," someone called. Dean stepped back and hugged the blanket tighter. He retreated to the weapon's bag.

"You need to come with us now."

"Yeah," Dean said automatically. He picked up the bag. Almost dropped it. Felt strangely weak. Uncoordinated.

"I'll take it. You can get it later."

Ted, Dean recognized. He stared dumbly at the drunk. Wanted to protest. Needed to protest. Things in that bag that no-one should see. No-one should have. Ever.

His gaze fell to Sam. Whole. Still breathing. Intubated now. Bare chested. An IV in one hand. He turned back to Ted. "How'd you get here?"

Ted grinned. All rotting teeth and alcohol induced guile. "Wanted to see her so I pulled the emergency brake." He shrugged and looked immensely pleased with himself. "Found your brother and scared the shit out of the driver. Bout time those bastards woke up. Should have seen the look on their faces when I tapped on the window. Funniest thing I've ever seen."

Dean stared, slack jawed. Blinked and looked back at Sam, then past him to the train. Closed his mouth then and kept it shut all the way back up the line. Stinky, savior Ted crammed into the tiny maintenance vehicle's rear seat. A second vehicle took Sam, not enough space for Dean, but he kept his eyes on it and suddenly didn't mind that the older man smelled something awful as he sat beside him.

"Thanks," he said once they reached South Central. He clambered onto the platform and swayed drunkenly. Another blonde paramedic came to his side. More brunette, Dean thought as he blinked stupidly.

"You're in shock," the woman said gently. She had kind eyes. He didn't notice her breasts or legs or ass. There was something so wrong about that.

Hugged the blanket even tighter. Frustrated that it did nothing to drive out the bone deep chill. He watched Sam. Couldn't take his eyes off him. Couldn't get the image of what might have been out of his head. Wished he could.

Held that image all the way to the hospital. They took Sam then. The younger man, all quiet and cold, and whisked him behind swinging white doors. Stopped Dean from following. Sat him down behind a curtained wall. Took the blanket, soothed him when he grunted and reached for it. Gave him another instead. A warmer one, and he quieted and watched, wide eyed, as they fed a line into his arm, a sharp sting and then liquid cold.

He woke to an acrid stench. Body odor and alcohol. Screwed his nose up and turned to face the smell. He sat up, groaned as dizziness roiled his gut. "Why are you here?" he said as he peered at Ted.

"Waiting for you to wake up."

"Why?"

Ted licked his lips and dug his hands into his stained overcoat. "Wondered if you'd seen her."

"Who?"

"Melanie."

Dean rubbed at his eyes in a vain attempt to scrub away the fogginess. He scanned the small curtained room, took in the bustle of activity beyond it and the plethora of medical equipment that surrounded him. Aside from an IV into the back of his hand, he remained otherwise unencumbered.

"Your brother is in surgery."

"Surgery? What for?"

"They said something about his fingers."

Dean averted his gaze as a wave of dizziness came over him. Ted seemed not to notice and scratched at his beard in self absorbed contemplation.

"I told them that I'm your father."

Dean's eyebrows threatened to hit his hairline. "What the hell did you do that for?"

"So I could stay. I need to stay. I need to know what your brother saw."

Dean slid his legs over the side of the gurney and planted them on the floor. He deflected the conversation, ill prepared to deal with Ted's watery eyes and trembling lower lip. "How long have I been here?"

"Not long."

"Minutes. Hours. How long?"

"Bit over an hour."

Dean scowled, yanked the IV, palmed the resultant blood and padded to the curtain. "Where's the surgical waiting room?"

"Doc doesn't want you moving around."

"Screw the doc. Which way?" He pushed the curtain aside and peered down the hall.

"Doc's gonna be pissed."

Dean glowered over his shoulder at Ted. "What'd you do with the bag?"

"What bag?"

"The weap…." Dean drew in a breath and pursed his lips. "The bag I had with me. The one you found with Sam."

"Uh, I've got it."

"Where?"

"It's safe."

Dean swiped his palm onto the white gown, leaving a long red smear. He cast an irritated glance at the older man then marched down the hall.

"Dean, the waiting room is this way, and…."

Dean spun on his heel and tracked Ted's pointing finger. He stalked back. "And what?"

Ted gestured downward. "You're putting on a bit of a show. Might want to cover up… son."

"Watch it." Dean's raised hand cut off any further words.

* * *

Sam was blue. 

Not grey, not white, not unconscious and pale, though he was all those thing as well. No, Sam Winchester was blue. Technically cyanotic: oxygen deprived. It sounded bad and looked worse.

Dean stood by his brother's bed and stared down at his unconscious and intubated sibling. After five hours in surgery for his hand, another two in isolation in ICU, Dean had been granted access to his brother. Aside from his face being a pale shade of blue, Sam's chest bore no evidence of injury and Dean struggled to understand how he had come to be this way. So it seemed, did the thirty-something year old doctor who had been assigned Sam's case.

"We are going to put him on nitrous oxide. We expect that will help with the oxygen uptake."

"You don't sound confident." He gave the doctor a sidelong glance and noted the stiff posture, thin lips and contemplative crease to the older man's brow. "You don't look it either."

Doctor Tanner teased a pen from the medical chart and twirled it between his perfectly manicured fingers. "Mr Wilson, as I explained to your father, what we have here is… unique."

Dean's fingers tightened around the rail that edged Sam's bed, aware that Ted the drunk still loitered outside. Disbarred from entry because of the risk his considerably unsanitary condition posed to Sam's health, and the fact that Dean would kick his ass if he even tried to step inside. "Explain it again." Dean leaned over and peered at the man's nameplate. "Fergus." His gaze lifted and he arched one eyebrow. "Fergus?"

The man's lips tightened. The infuriating twirling ceased. "Mr Wilson—"

"My name is Dean. His name is Sam, and you're Fergus. Out there is Ted." Dean waved absently toward the window. "Now, what is wrong with my brother."

"Mr…" Fergus caught himself, tucked the pen onto the chart and straightened his shoulders. "The symptoms are suggestive of severe hypoxia. The blue discoloration of the lips, fingernails and toes occurs when haemoglobin in the blood is not bound to oxygen due to an inadequate supply of it to the body. There are several causes, the commonest of which are pulmonary disease, carbon monoxide poisoning, respiratory arrest."

Dean leaned forward. "It's none of those."

Fergus caressed the chart and raked an impassive gaze over Sam's body. "This kind of respiratory deterioration is relatively common in the late stages of Cystic Fibrosis."

"Sam doesn't have that."

Fergus tapped his fingers on the chart. "Hypoxia may also be caused by cerebral ischemia where the blood is oxygenated but restricted from reaching all areas of the body. For instance in cases of strangulation."

"He was not strangled." Dean peered at Sam's unmarred throat, needing confirmation as his own airway suddenly painfully constricted. He touched Sam's hand, the one closest to him. The pads of his fingers hit the bandaged paw and his stomach churned.

"The surgery to reattach the fingers went well," Fergus offered, his words measured. "All digits were reattached. There should be minimal nerve damage."

Dean nodded as bitter sourness tightened the glands in his mouth. "Why was there blood on his neck? When I found him, there was dried blood, like he had been bleeding from the mouth."

"Yes."

Dean gestured in expectation. "And?"

"It's resolved itself."

"I can see that." Dean nodded to Sam's bare chest. "But what was it? What caused it?"

Fergus glanced toward the door. "I've ordered a nitric oxide regime to dilate the blood vessels in the lungs. It will assist in oxygen uptake. Ah, here it is now."

Two women stepped into the room, one a nurse that Dean recognized and the other shorter, fatter and just as sour faced as Fergus. An intern, Dean surmised. She nudged him aside. When he didn't take the hint, she faced him and said, "You need to step back."

"You're taking him off the ventilator?"

"Temporarily, while we set up the nitric oxide," Fergus said.

"Why? What's wrong with him?"

"Mr Wilson."

"No. What's going on here? What aren't you telling me?"

"Let's step outside. Your father—"

"He's not—" Dean stopped himself and blew out a heavy breath. He scrubbed a hand across his face, alarmed at how badly his hands shook. "I won't leave Sam. Tell me in here."

"In deference to Ted, we need to step outside. Laura won't be long in here."

Dean twisted his hands into the hem of his shirt as the two women unhooked the ventilator. Sam subconsciously tensed and made soft gasping sounds.

Fergus placed a warning hand on Dean's arm. Dean shrugged it off, his chest heaving. "I'm not leaving him."

Dean found himself under the cool stare of the dark haired doctor. Measured and assessed, psychologically categorized, he suspected, sorted and slotted into a neat box. Where he came in on the man's intelligence and affluence measure would determine how much of Sam's medical condition he would be told. He lifted his chin, wondering just how and when Sam's care had become a battle of wills with this silver spoon fed son of a bitch.

"What is wrong with my brother?" he said, carefully enunciating each word, his tone giving no doubt about where on the physical violence measure Dean sat.

Sam made soft sounds of distress and Dean steeled his jaw to ignore them.

Fergus lifted his chin, as though challenging Dean to acknowledge his brother's suffering. Dean narrowed his gaze, his nostrils flared as he ignored Sam. "Tell me what is wrong with my brother," he said venomously.

"Initial diagnosis suggested Primary Pulmonary Hypertension, a progressive disease that results in elevated pressure within the lungs. It can occur at any age, but has a progressive onset and a predictable outcome."

"Which is?"

"Death unless a heart-lung transplant is successful."

Dean swallowed convulsively as Sam continued to gasp for air. "You said initial diagnosis. So what's your diagnosis now?"

"Persistent Pulmonary Hypertension of the Newborn. PPHN," Fergus bit out at the same moment as Sam's intubation tube was clipped back in to the ventilator.

Dean bit his lip, his hands clenched as tension dissipated. "What is that?"

Fergus shifted his weight, glanced at his Swiss Rolex and smoothed imaginary creases from his perfectly pressed baby blue shirt. Gold studded cufflinks glinted beneath the fluorescent light. "PPHN is a condition wherein a fetus' respiratory system does not adapt to breathing outside of the womb. It's an uncommon condition, with an unfavorable outcome."

Dean stared, open mouthed as the doctor straightened his tie.

"Before birth, a fetus exists in a liquid environment within the mother's womb. Oxygen and carbon dioxide exchange occurs via the placenta. The pulmonary artery bypasses the lungs and sends blood directly to the heart through a fetal blood vessel called the ductus arteriosus. When a baby is born, the circulatory system switches over to send blood to the lungs. The lungs inflate and the ductus arteriosus closes."

Dean's gaze flicked to Sam, then back to Fergus. His pulse sped up and sweat slicked his hands.

The older man shifted his weight again, the polished leather shoes squeaking against the floor. His tone remained clinical and detached, reciting as if by rote. "In rare instances the fetal circulatory system doesn't switch over at birth. The newborn's lungs, though functional, are ineffective and the child's blood is not properly oxygenated. The abnormal lung pressure places excessive strain on the heart, which unless resolved will cause the organ to fail."

Fergus nodded to the intern as she left the room. The nurse followed, her skirt swishing against her legs, her shoes making soft scuffing noises. It chorused well with the rhythmic whoosh of the ventilator that fed Sam air.

"What does this have to do with Sam?"

"The respiratory system here mirrors that of a fetus."

A headache blossomed behind Dean's right eye. "You mind repeating that?"

Fergus checked his Rolex, then his cell phone. The second device looked just as disgustingly expensive as the first. "The condition is abnormal and unique. I've contacted some colleagues from Boston, they're flying in."

Dean's head swiveled to his brother laying silent and motionless. Vulnerable. The younger man looked impossibly still, tragically unanimated and Dean's gut twisted as his flight instincts kicked in – told him to get Sam and run. But he did nothing of the sort, because his first miserable attempt to save his sibling had left Sam with a mangled left hand. "Sam's lungs have collapsed?" he blurted out. He looked at Fergus, dismayed at how pathetically needy he sounded.

"No, the lungs are functional."

"Then I don't understand."

"The oxygen taken in to the lungs cannot reach the bloodstream because the artery that takes oxygenated blood to the heart is not in the right place."

Dean suddenly felt cold, as though the temperature had plummeted, sucking the air from the room at the same time. "Not in the right place. How?"

Fergus looked at him as though he were a two year old. "I have just explained."

"You spurted some mumbo jumbo crap about wombs and fetuses and things not changing over. Sam is an adult. A fully grown man. He is not a freakin' baby."

"No. But his respiratory system is functioning as if it were still within the womb."

"Are you out of your mind? That is not possible. He's…. Sam is twenty three years old. You're telling me he has a condition that affects kids when they're born."

"Mr Wilson, if we're finished here."

"What's the long term prognosis? That shit you're pumping into him," Dean waved haphazardly toward Sam's bed, "that'll fix him, right?"

"It will ease the symptoms in the short term."

"But it'll eventually fix him."

"We can't say for sure. PPNH is difficult to treat in newborns, but failing any other abnormalities, the respiratory system is often able to come on line as it should. However, this is an adult. The lungs fully formed. Uncharted territory, you might say."

Dean's knees weakened, his mouth went dry. "Are you telling me Sam may be... dying?"

"Yes." Fergus barely paused to take a breath. "We will administer various remedial measures as we would if this were a newborn."

The slick comb-haired doctor prattled on but Dean no longer heard him above the pounding of his own blood against his ears. He stood glued to the spot as Fergus moved to the bed, checked the monitors and then flattened a palm across Sam's bare chest.

"An adult that has had its respiratory system reverted to a fetal state," Fergus said, his voice breathily soft and edged with contemplative awe. "Impossible and amazing. Simply amazing."

The doctor's tongue flicked, teasing his lower lip. It hit Dean then, somehow registered through his horrified mind that aside from the non-existent bedside manner, Fergus had not once referred to Sam by name. As though Sam was some kind of lab rat, an experiment… a subject.

Dean barely repressed a snarl as he moved to his brother's side and placed a protectively possessive hand on Sam's bare shoulder. Fergus glanced up and their gaze locked.

"Truly amazing," Fergus said slowly as he withdrew. His eyes sparked with unabashed curiosity and awe. "It's as though he's been reborn – recreated and reformed – and during the process a malfunction occurred. But that's impossible. Absolutely impossible."

Dean forced a vapid smile. "Yeah, impossible."


	6. Chapter 6

AN: Yet again I write to publicly thank everyone who has reviewed because I can't thank you personally. The response to this story has really surprised and encouraged me. Everyone who has come out of lurking to drop me a review, I thank each of you from the bottom of my sensitive little heart. To everyone who has theorized on what might have happened to Sam, I adore that, and I wish I'd thought up some of these super smart ideas myself! I hope the actual explanation is okay for you all. Anyway, enough of my nervous nattering, on with the story.

**BLOOD ON THE TRACKS**

**- Chapter Six -**

* * *

"What did the bitch do to Sam?" 

"I don't know."

"Bullshit." Dean fisted his hands in Ted's grimy lapels and shoved him against the glass wall. It shook on impact. "What did she do?"

Ted licked his lips nervously, his gaze darting. "Beam me up." He grinned awkwardly, his hands loose at his sides. "Scotty," he added as though in afterthought. The leer faded. "Let me go."

Dean pressed himself closer, chest to chest with the older man, the stench of urine and unwashed desperation almost overpowering. "Do not mess with me. You do not want to mess with me."

Ted's arms came up and pushed ineffectually. "Get off. Help," he bleated.

"Don't." Dean pressed a hand over Ted's mouth, the older man's facial hair wired against his palm. "Tell me what your screwed up kid did to my brother."

Ted cowered, tried to cover his face with his hands as he slid along the wall, shoulder hard against the glass. Dean tightened his hold and bunched muscles trembled with the need to beat answers from the cringing scrap of humanity in his grasp.

"I don't know what she did," Ted said, his voice wavering with uncertainty and partly muted by his bowed head. "Let me go."

Dean scanned the hallway: chlorine bleached linoleum stung his eyes, murmured voices poured like liquid acid against his ears. People moved in the periphery, distance driven by the odor that emanated from Ted, leaching outwards like putrescent Agent Orange. Fergus had disappeared over ten minutes earlier, seemingly too overwhelmed by Ted's distinctive aroma to make anything other than an effusive grunt as he disappeared from view. Even the nurses took a wide path, nattering and scowling as they hurried past. Dean, however, had nowhere to go. Stuck with his critically ill brother and a strung out, alcohol deprived drunkard who had all the answers – or had absolutely none.

"Let me go," Ted said again, louder, whinier – high pitched enough to draw attention.

"Hey, what's going on here?" a third voice, deep, male and authoritative. Coming from behind Dean, out of sight and moving in quick.

Dean roughly shoved Ted, then raised his hands and stepped back. "Family disagreement," he said tightly as he turned to address the newcomer. "It's resolved now."

"Sir?" the security guard asked as he stopped beside Ted. Narrowed eyes fixed on the drunkard, bushy brows knitted in a façade of concern even as the long nose hairs twitched and his puffy face screwed up in disgust. The man took a step back, his belly wobbling beneath the starched uniform. "Mr Wilson," he said, as his gaze lifted to meet Dean's. "We need to speak privately."

The guard moved off down the hall and stopped two rooms down. He gestured again, a sharp flick of his wrist before one hand slid to rest on his hip, holstered weapon in clear view. Dean bristled and shot a quick glance at Sam, his chest tightening as he took in his brother's critical state. Sam had not yet regained consciousness and the intubation remained, pushing in chemically altered air because the twenty-three year old could no longer breathe normally. At least he was no longer blue – Dean thought that had to count for something, but wasn't exactly sure what.

"Is there a problem?" Dean said tightly as he reached the other man. He instinctively chose an angle that allowed him to observe his brother's room – to see who went in and out, though he could not longer see Sam directly. Ted remained at the window, limpet fixed, fetid breath fogging the glass as he stared inside. It seemed that nothing short of atomic detonation would remove him.

"Your father requires a change of attire," the officer said.

Dean's focus flicked to Ted and his nose twitched despite the distance. "Yeah, so?"

"You are his son."

"Oh, you heard that too? Freakin' grapevine needs a good shot of herbicide." The disapproving glance cut Dean off, made his too loud voice soften. He ducked his head, folded his arms across his chest and shoved his hands into his armpits. "He stinks, point taken. What do you want me to do about it?"

"Your father can use the staff showers and he can be provided with patient attire."

"Fine. Show Ted where to go, he'll figure out the rest."

"That is not our responsibility. I have been ordered to remove you both from the premises, but I thought that you may not wish to leave given your brother's condition."

Dean's arms unfolded, dropped to his sides as his shoulders squared. He faced the guard, aware of his own superior height, of brawn, of desperation. "What do you know about Sam's condition?"

"Nothing," the guard shot back as his face reddened. His hand slid to the weapon, teased at it. "I've been ordered to remove both of you and only allow you to return once he's clean. But I wrangled a compromise so you both can stay, except he," he thumbed toward Ted, "has to be cleaned up." He stepped back and fluffed out his chest. "I thought it a fair deal."

"He won't leave and neither will I."

"You won't have a choice."

Dean raised an eyebrow at the stout man, his jaw clenching as the portly little foot soldier's hand flexed around the gun.

"He's my brother," Dean said, unable to veil the stunned incredulity and raw panic from his voice. "I need to be here."

"Rules are rules."

"Jesus, what the hell is this place? That prick Fergus is behind this, right?"

"Are you going to cooperate or do I need to escort you from the premises?"

"Escort him."

"You are his son."

"You know what, I'm sick of hearing that." Dean stalked back to Sam's room and stopped at the door, fingers clenched against the doorframe. "You stink, Ted. There have been complaints. You need to get cleaned up or they'll kick us both out, and trust me you do not want that to happen."

Ted's eyes widened. He plucked at the threadbare clothes and the distressed action caused newly released ammonia to waft outwards. "No. No. No."

"Freakin' hell, Ted, then leave, now!"

Ted's jaw dropped and his gaze shifted back to Sam. "He saw Melanie. I have to stay."

"He either gets cleaned up or you both leave," the officer said as he rejoined them. "I've offered you a compromise. Make a scene and the offer will be reneged."

"You hear that? You get cleaned up or they'll kick us both. Trust me, you do not want that." Dean leaned in close, almost gagging at the heated scene of urine, sweat and God knows what else. "Do you, Ted?"

"No," Ted said breathily, "but—"

Dean moved back and glanced at the security officer. "Where are the showers?"

"Lauren at the nurses' station will show you where they are. I'll be back in thirty minutes, if he's not clean by then, you will both be escorted from the premises."

"Yeah. Got it. Ted, c'mon, bath time."

* * *

Cleaning Ted took an hour, endless cajoling, threats and the last of Dean's already frayed sanity. He returned to Sam's room, exhausted and aching. Ted followed along behind, dressed in white, his head hanging and beard dripping. A tattered brown covered book was tucked against his chest, the bony fingers clutched at the thin tome with a repetitive desperation. He had pulled it from the depths of the ought to be condemned overcoat, and now carried it like it was a bible. Maybe it was, Dean really did not care. 

Fergus, the primly starched medico, stood by Sam's door, cell phone to ear. The blinds to Sam's room had been drawn. Dean froze and a spike of fear tracked the length of his spine, made his fingers prickle and his heart stop dead in his chest. Ted bumped up against Dean, his waterlogged beard creating a damp patch on the back of Dean's upper arm. The scent of lavender, nicotine and booze hung as a bitter veil, locking the eldest Winchester to the grieving drunkard – one and the same. It turned Dean's stomach.

"I have to go," Fergus said to someone on the other end of the cell phone connection. He dropped the phone to his side and addressed Dean. "You can't go in right now."

Dean's gaze shot to the drawn blinds and somewhere around then his heart started pumping again. He lunged forward, growling as Fergus shot an arm out, braced the hand against the door and strengthened his stance.

"Professor Sandbaum is assessing the patient. It is inappropriate for you to enter."

"Don't make me deck you."

"Don't make me have you removed."

"This is bullshit. He's my brother. I need to be in there."

"Professor Sandbaum will speak with you when and if it's appropriate."

"It's appropriate right now."

Fergus retrieved the cell phone and thumbed at the buttons. He pressed it to his ear. "Security," he said, his even gaze leveled on Dean.

Dean shoved the doctor hard enough to bruise, then back stepped, his hands opened out by his sides in a gesture of submission. He breathed hard, teetering on the edge of panic as the frighteningly aloof doctor grimaced in an over-exaggerated show of pain. He rubbed one handed at his shoulder, his eyes sparking with feigned distress and something else that Dean could barely comprehend.

"Is he going to stop us from seeing Sam?" Ted asked as his fingers made dented impressions in the cover of the book.

Panic clawed at Dean's chest, constricted his windpipe and made rubber jelly of his legs. "No," he said without a shred of conviction as Fergus kept the phone to his ear and the door to Sam's room remained closed.

Dean felt the complete loss of power, of control, of any sense of potential influence he may ever have held over his brother's safety. Their father had impressed upon them the need to avoid hospitals unless there was no other option. Life first. Safety second. Comfort last. Suck it up. Dean had learned that early. Sam too. But his kid brother had been near death – no way in hell could Dean have patched that up.

"This isn't good," Ted whispered.

Understatement of the year, Dean thought sourly. He thought he heard movement from within the room. His assumption correct when Fergus quickly glanced over his shoulder, thumbed the end call button and dropped the phone to his side.

Several awkward moments passed and the door did not open. Dean heard no further sound. He bounced on his toes, clenched and unclenched his hands. "What are they doing in there?"

Fergus wet his lips and smoothed non existent creases from his crisply laundered shirt. "Assessing the patient."

"The patient's name is Sam. S. A. M. Do you need me to write it down for you?"

"Professor Sandbaum has arranged for a transfer to Boston," Fergus said, his tone infuriatingly neutral. "Massachusetts General Hospital. Be grateful that the professor has taken such an interest in the case. He is a noted physician and researcher in the field of PPHN. This arrangement poses considerable advantage."

Advantage to whom? Dean did not ask the question, but the way the hairs of his neck stood on end and his heart pumped fast and frantically warned him that he had endangered his brother in a way he never thought possible. "How unique is Sam's condition," he finally asked when he felt sure his voice wouldn't break.

Fergus seemed to briefly smile, but it was too fast for Dean to grasp, and too incongruous to make sense. "No other recorded case. Ever." The doctor paused, made a show of kneading at his shoulder as he raised his chin and considered Dean and Ted over the bridge of his nose. "There are some documents that need to be signed to effect the patient transfer. Professor Sandbaum's legal unit is having them drawn up as we speak."

Dean watched the closed blinds as his fingernails gouged into the palms of his hands, hard and sharp enough to draw blood.

"You will need to sign them." A brief pause, then, "Will there be a problem?"

"No." Dean deliberately drew his head up and met the doctor's gaze squarely. "Whatever is best for Sam. I will do whatever is best for Sam."

Fergus studied him, his blue eyes piercing Dean's. He snapped to Ted then flicked back, his lips pulled thin with a self congratulatory leer. "Good, I'll have the papers to you within the hour."


	7. Chapter 7

AN: Again, thank you to everyone who is following this story! Your reviews are like pure gold. Thank you! And hoorah for email alerts coming back online, slowly but surely, now you will be able to receive my blathering responses. ::wink:: Hope you enjoy!

**BLOOD ON THE TRACKS**

**- Chapter Seven -**

* * *

"You're going to be fine," Dean said from his seated position beside Sam's bed. The elder hunter leaned forward, elbows on knees and hands clenched around a thin bundle of papers that he rolled and unrolled with jerky repetitiveness. 

Dean's rigid posture and the panicked look on his face gave the lie away, even if Sam had not already known that he was in trouble. His only hope lay with science, and the three medical specialists who had been ushered into his room the moment he had woken. Sam had been leery of them, immediately on edge, warily watching the Professor and his two assistants as they talked around him and about him, but not to him. He had been afraid, but did not know why. He soon learned.

"Sammy, did you hear me?"

Sam shrugged listlessly and fingered the nasal canula that fed chemically tainted air into his nose. It burned – the pressured stream of air painful to the sensitive tissue – but the balding Professor with his flushed face and keenly bright eyes had been reluctant to change it. Said that it had to be high pressure so Sam could breathe, the alternative was intubation and sedation. So now he welcomed the burn, because he knew the absence was worse.

"Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam said breathily. He looked up at his brother and briefly smiled, then let his wandering gaze rest on the other man in the room. Older, with bushy eyebrows and hair that seemed never to end. Garbed in white and looking decidedly unhappy. Sam frowned at the stranger who looked oddly familiar.

"Ted," Dean said abruptly, his voice dripping with displeasure as he shifted on the chair. Denim rubbed against the patterned fabric. "We met him on the train. He's the father of the bitch that did this to you."

"Melanie's father," Sam said in a whisper, his attention still on the stranger. Pain spiked and he groaned as cold worked through his limbs, tingling and prickling already over sensitive nerve endings. It locked onto his chest and his hand. His hand. He panted weakly and peered at his hand, bandaged from fingertip to elbow. Severed fingers the Professor had said, then murmured something about reattachment and microsurgery, and that someone else would explain it all later.

"I did that," Dean said, his voice bitter and dry with self recrimination.

Sam wrenched his gaze up, his heart hammering as he looked at his brother. His lips parted but no words came.

Dean pulled in an unsteady breath and looked down at a sheaf of papers that he held in his hands. His thumb flicked through the half dozen creased and curled pages. "In the subway, I didn't get your hand clear. I thought… I had. But you're going to be okay. They sewed them all back on, good as new."

Sam looked back at his hand, his brother's forced cheeriness making something twist inside of him. "Did the doctor speak to you?" he asked cautiously after the silence had extended a beat too long.

"Yeah, Fergus Frankenstein and that round headed little professor who grilled you for over an hour want to send you to Boston."

Sam's mouth went dry. He stared at his brother as Dean raised the pages in an abrupt gesture. The older man's lips kept moving, but Sam did not hear. Instead, he heard the minutes counted off in horrific recollection. Oxygen deprivation as a means by which to understand his condition. Professor Sandbaum had wanted to know how long it took for Sam's vitals to drop and his blood to turn cyanotic once they took his oxygen away. So they did, without sedation or pain relief. They stopped the slow torture when Sam's lips turned blue.

Forty three minutes and twenty seconds: the pain of slow suffocation incomparable.

"Professor Shit-for-brains expects me to sign consent for you to be transferred and…" Dean's voice overpowered Sam's memory. "But it's not happening, little brother. I promise you that."

Sam tugged on his lower lip with his teeth and looked away. He searched for reassurance, for hope from his brother's words and vehement protectiveness, but he found none. He thought his hope must have died somewhere around the thirty minute mark when the round headed Professor had wiped away his tears and told him that it was for the best. Maybe it was, because nothing else made sense. "I know how she did it," he said quietly. "She pulled me through the metal siding of the train. Through it, Dean I felt it, and… it hurt. Like she had torn me apart."

"Beam me up, Scotty," Ted said, his voice oddly disconnected.

"Ted," Dean growled. "Thought I told you to keep your mouth shut."

Ted slowly raised his head, glanced warily at Dean then directed his attention to Sam. "They never said that, you know," he said as tears filled his eyes and his chin trembled. "It was actually Scotty, beam me up. That annoyed Melanie. Said it defiled Emory's name, detracted from who he was and what he had done. She said she had met him. Told me he had taught her almost everything he knew. I didn't believe her. I should have. And now she has done this to you, to all those others. I should have done something – should have known she was ill and helped her, but I didn't, because I'm a bad father."

Sam's heart thumped into a jagged palpitation and his vision blackened. In that brief space of nothingness, it all became clear. He struggled back to full awareness and found Dean pacing the room, waving his arms animatedly as he bawled out an already inconsolable Ted.

"Dean."

The elder hunter turned immediately.

"She dematerialized me. She… beamed me up. Took me through that metal wall. Said if I hadn't fought her, it would have worked. She called it a transporter accident and said Emory would fix it. But Emory isn't real, Dean. He's not real."

Sam blew out a pathetic half breath as pain speared through his chest and tears stung his eyes. "Star Trek," he rasped. "Jesus Christ, Dean, it's not real. How… could she do this to me?"

Dean gaped, disbelief and shock blanching his features. Sam pushed back against the pillows as growing panic and pain made it damned near impossible to breathe. He waited for Dean to deny it, to laugh at the insanity of it, to reassure him that it could not be true. Instead his brother stared, horrifically wide eyed, and time slowed to a numbing crawl.

"She must have opened a window or forced the doors," Dean finally said, his voice insipid with horrified doubt. "She must have…."

But she had not. Sam knew it, and he could see that Dean did too. Sam looked away, struggled to swallow, to breathe, to keep the welling wave of panic that threatened to consume him. Ted continued his quiet introspective monologue, berating himself for his pathetic parenting while Dean clasped the back of his neck, spun on his heel and stalked to the window to stare out at a view that Sam knew he did not see.

Sam suddenly felt alone, trapped in a body that had been physically reconfigured so that it no longer tolerated an aerobic environment. Maybe he could breathe underwater. The inane thought came and went, but the pain and the terror stayed – as did the bitter realization of where it all led.

"Sandbaum can't fix this," he said around the rawness in his throat and the constriction in his chest. "Melanie screwed me over, man. There's no coming back from this."

"We'll find a way. We just have to think it through. Work it out. That's all."

"That's all," Sam grunted. He tried to roll his eyes, but they were too filled with moisture and heavy with pained exhaustion to do anything other than close.

"Don't give up, Sam. Don't you dare."

Sam didn't want to. Not really, but the temptation was there. Right before him, the delicious pull of oblivion. Peace. No more pain. He slipped toward it, wanting it, desiring it. But something held him back. Kept him physically grounded – a tight pressure around his wrist from where his brother's calloused hand pressed against his flesh. Hard enough to bruise, but that's the way they were. The way their lives were. So much pain.

"Tired," Sam whispered, and his voice betrayed more than he ever knew it could.

"You don't get to sleep, Sammy. Not now. Not yet. Not for a long time, little brother. Not while I'm around. You hear me!"

The grasp around his wrist became painful and Sam gasped, his eyes jerking open. "Dean."

Dean let go immediately, his expression tortured, then the older man crossed the room, grabbed Ted by the front of his gown and slammed the frail looking drunk against the wall. "Tell me everything that bitch told you," Dean snarled as he shoved Ted again and made his head bounce off the wall. "Everything! You hearin' me?"

"Shit," Sam breathed. He pushed up on one elbow, gasping and grunting as Dean drew an arm back in preparation to strike the cowering man. "Dean, stop!" He trembled, one arm outstretched and the IV line pulled tight. "Stop," he repeated. "Please stop."

A book hit the floor at Ted's feet, landed with a muted thud then flattened on its back. Sam's lips parted as Dean glanced at it, then bent down and picked it up. He flipped it open, ignorant of Ted's frantic attempts to retrieve it. Sam flopped back, exhausted and sickened as Dean kept the small brown ledger just out of Ted's reach. Everything about his brother's behavior and Ted's distress rang warning bells in Sam's head, but he couldn't express his anxiety so instead he stared and gasped and struggled just to stay conscious.

"It's her diary," Dean said caustically. "This is the bitch's diary."

"Dean, don't."

Dean looked across at him, his eyes blazing. "He had this all the time, Sam. Her motives and method, all the deranged thoughts she had while alive that expanded exponentially in death. I'll bet it's all here. Everything!"

Did it really matter? Sam's vision blurred as Dean bowed his head and roughly flipped the pages. Ted's whiny voice chorused in the background and Sam's consciousness took a sudden, unscheduled nose-dive.

He did not know how long he had been out, but it must have been several hours because the light seemed different, the sun's angle changed, the room darker. Dean leaned over him, frantically tapping his face in an attempt to rouse him. The book had vanished and Sam wondered if he had imagined it all.

"Sam, you with me?"

Sam shifted and absently plucked at the nasal canula. He started a little as he saw Ted watching him. The older man stood by the end of the bed, his dirty khaki overcoat clutched around him, the fabric caught up in one hand while in the other he held the journal. Sam frowned as he saw the book.

"Diary," he said as he pointed to it.

"Enlightening reading," Dean ground out. He unhooked the nasal canula from under Sam's nose and hesitated as Sam flinched. "Sam, you good?"

"Yeah."

"You ready to bust this place?"

Sam grabbed the tubing, held it between forefinger and thumb, poised to tear it back and fit it back into place. His hand shook and he couldn't help it. "Why?"

"They want to use you for medical research, Sam. Not to heal you, but to heal others. They don't know how to fix you and this," the rolled sheaf of papers flashed in Sam's field of view, "confirms it."

Guinea pig. Used for medical science. There were humanitarian laws that protected people from that. He read about them, when they had been abused. It is how science advanced, how lives were saved – a worthy sacrifice.

"I should stay," Sam rasped as he tugged on the nasal tubing.

Dean's features hardened. "No. They can't heal you. They're not even going to try."

"I can save lives. Babies. That's good, isn't it?"

"Shit, Sammy, what crap have they been telling you?" Dean firmly pulled the tubing away, out of Sam's reach. "You're leaving here. Now."

Sam panicked, clawed at his brother and begged for the oxygen. He didn't realize what he said, or what he did, but moments later he found himself forcibly stilled, and the nasal canula back in place, the burning sting through his nose helping to calm him down.

"Sam, what the hell?" Dean dropped to the chair, one hand tight around Sam's forearm, the pads of his fingers sweaty against Sam's skin. He leaned forward, heatedly whispering. "The chopper is on its way. Less than an hour out. Sandbaum's legal team found some freakin' loophole in the admission forms that Ted signed. It's horse-shit, Sammy, but there's money and egos and power behind this and… they say they can take you." He leaned closer, sounding frantic, panicked. "Fergus had gone home to pack. He's going with you. He and that fucking smarmy professor will have you and they can do anything they want." He paused, glanced at the door and Sam saw the raw fear in his eyes before he looked back. "Once they move you to Boston, there's no way… there's no chance."

"No chance… now."

"There is," Dean said in a vehement whisper as he stabbed toward Ted and the diary. "There's years of psychotic rambling in that thing, diagrams, theories, conversations -- everything that the dead chick ever thought, everything she ever did, and it's all about Star Trek and this Emory dude. Sam, the supernatural did this, the supernatural will fix it. But I have to take you off the oxygen to get you out of here. I've got an oxygen tank, and I've got drugs." His hand tightened, clasped harder around Sam's forearm. Not painful, but demandingly protective. "Trust me. I will fix this, but not if you get taken to Boston. It has to be here. Right here. It's the only way."

Sam trusted his brother. He really did. He tugged his arm out of his Dean's grasp and touched at the canula. "Forty three minutes and twenty seconds," he said in a bare whisper. He wet his lips and clutched at the thin plastic tubing. "Thirty minutes. Don't leave it off for longer than… thirty minutes. It's… it hurts so bad."

Something dark and deadly rapidly crossed Dean's face, but it was gone too fast for recognition. Dean nodded curtly, seemingly unable or unwilling to speak. When Dean reached for the canula a second time, Sam did not resist because he trusted his brother more than anything in this world, and if Dean could not fix this, no-one could.


	8. Chapter 8

**BLOOD ON THE TRACKS**

**- Chapter Eight -**

* * *

"I can't smell the fish," Sam said, his voice barely above a whisper. He frowned and touched at the nasal canula that Dean had hooked up the moment they arrived at their motel, exactly twenty nine minutes after Dean had taken him off the hospital oxygen. It had passed in a pained blur, interspersed with a pitstop where Dean had injected something into the IV port in the back of his hand. It hadn't knocked him out, just made him sort of floaty, put a chemical block between his failing body and his panicked mind. It had helped. 

He let his hand drift to the IV line where he fingered the twin plastic tubes, fluids and medication – a concoction that included IV Flolan. He remembered that one because it sounded like flowers. Thought Flolan's might be pink with purple centers and smell like lilac lavenders. Jessica would have planted them beside the petunias that bordered the outdoor entertainment setting.

Except Jessica was dead.

Sam blinked and squeezed the IV lines, pinched them closed, then released. Did it again, and again. Light sedation, Dean had said, to relax the muscles because the tenser he was, the harder it would be to breathe. It made sense, so he let his hand fall away and allowed the malleable plastic to recover as he considered the plight of the dead fish. The room had been locked up for well over a day, the weather warm. He longed to take the piped air away from his face and inhale the rotting aroma of Winchester pranking. It should stink by now. Reek something absolutely awful.

Sam wiggled his toes free from the blanket Dean had laid over his lower legs and turned toward his brother. Dean sat on the second bed, the one closest to the door – the one with the stinky fish tucked behind the headboard. No way in hell room service would have found it. The older boy had one leg pulled up and resting on the bed, the sole of his shoe facing Sam. Must have stepped in something, Sam thought idly as he noted a thick patch of green gum on the instep of his brother's shoe. Unless it was rotting fish innards. His lips pulled up a little as he contemplated that.

"Can you smell the fish?" he said, louder.

Dean's head ricocheted from its bowed position with enough speed and force to cause self inflicted whiplash. "Dammit, don't do that. I thought you were asleep."

"Fish?" Sam said weakly, realizing then that he sounded deranged. Thought he ought to explain, but a deep ache in his chest warned him of the danger of excessive vocalization.

"What fish?" Dean asked cautiously.

Sam blinked and winced. "Doesn't matter, didn't work." His gaze dropped to his bandaged hand as his free one scratched at his chest.

Dean rose and the bed creaked as his weight lifted. It pulled Sam's attention and he stared at the puce colored cover until Dean's denim clad legs blocked his view.

"Sammy?"

One name, so many questions and so much concern. "I'm okay," Sam said even as he wondered at the absurdity of such a statement. Truth be told, he did not feel okay. Sort of spacey, heavy and sore… and warm. He idly kicked at the blankets again to shift them further away. Even the hospital issue cotton top and drawstring pants added a slightly unpleasant balminess to his body.

"You sure you're okay? Are you in pain?"

"Hmm. No." He gave one final kick and one end of the blanket started a slow, graceful dive off the edge of the mattress. Satisfied, Sam looked up at his brother. "What you find in the.…" He winced and pressed the canula tighter to his nose. "Diary?" he finished, slightly breathlessly.

Dean studied him a moment longer then glanced down at the blanket. "Melanie was a Star Trek fanatic. Obsessive, delusional and psychotic." He paused and eyed Sam. "You sure know how to pick 'em."

"Hilarious," Sam said softly.

"So was the decomposing tuna."

"You found it?"

"I saw you put it there, Loki. You're losing your touch."

Sam huffed and toyed with the IV lines again. "What else you find?"

"The kid was a certifiable loony. One Spock ear short of a convention."

"That's helpful," Sam said sarcastically. "Anything else?"

"Lots. Strap yourself in, kiddo. The ride gets bumpy."

"You on something?"

"Dead fish. Snorting it actually."

Sam pushed himself up on the bed as he watched his brother with a touch of apprehension. "Dude?"

Dean caught his lower lip between his teeth as he ducked his head. He scrubbed a hand across his face and retreated to the bed. "Sorry," he muttered as he snagged the diary and flipped it open. "Only so much bad television I can take."

"It's not bad."

"They don't have cars, Sam. Just weird assed wigs, space ships and really bad scripts."

"It was… is a cult classic."

"Cult, see that right there is my problem. Cults are evil. Mind destroying."

Sam gently ran his good hand over the length of the bandages. His injured fingers sparked with an unpleasant sensation that defied description and turned his stomach. At least it took his mind off his chest, off what Melanie had done to him… of how screwed up everything had become. "What else is in the diary?" he asked tiredly.

"Emory Erickson was the creator of the transportation device that moved characters to and from the starship. Saved the television network a packet on fabricating a docking station for the various crafts."

"Yeah, I get that," Sam said as he scratched at his chest again. His hand stilled as Dean moved to him.

"Let me see." Dean had Sam's chest bared before Sam could protest. "It's the adhesive from the monitor pads. Don't scratch."

Disconcerted, Sam pulled the cotton t-shirt down as Dean returned to the second bed and sat on the edge. The elder hunter retrieved the diary and fanned it open. His hand stilled on the page and Sam could just make out a diagram of some sort.

"Rest Sam, we'll be cutting out of here in a few hours and I need you mobile." Dean glanced at him before looking back at the book.

Sam watched his brother and waited for further explanation. It did not come, instead Dean pored over the journal, his eyes flicking across the page as he scanned. Frustrated and confused, Sam touched at the nasal canula, turned his head to the side and took in the oxygen tank and IV stand that stood against the brick interior wall. The small digital clock on the bedside table showed six o'clock. PM he thought. It was getting dark.

Oxygen tank and IV. "How?"

"Borrowed," Dean said. "Ted helped."

Sam's head swiveled. He scanned the room, searching for Ted. Spotted him in the far corner, asleep in a chair, shadowed and unmoving. Clothed in the same attire he had worn on the train, though there looked to be something white beneath the stained overcoat. Hospital gown, Sam thought.

"The dematerialization is potentially reversible," Dean said more to himself than to Sam as he tapped at the diagram. "Flow chart shows how she thought it would work. It actually makes sense in a deranged sort of way."

"Quinn. Emory's son. He disappeared, transportation accident. Emory brought him back."

Dean's hand stilled and a sly smile curled one side of his mouth. "Knew you were a Trekkie geek. Late night research, my ass."

Sam braced himself with one hand and pushed away from the bed. His arm trembled as he forced it to take his weight. "That episode didn't air until last year, Dean. She's been dead ten years. No way she could have known about Emory. He hadn't been… thought up when she died." He finished and panted weakly, his chest tight and lungs burning.

"It's in here, Sam. She had conversations with him." Dean swallowed hard as understanding dawned. "You're telling me this chick dreamed up this Emory dude before he had even been… thought up."

Sam nodded.

"Oh." He scratched at his ear. "Okay, well, maybe that's good. So this isn't really Star Trek mythology then, it's a parallel thought stream."

"You're scaring me, man."

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, well work with me here. Melanie believed her own deranged fantasy to the extent that she withdrew from society. Locked herself away with her diary and imagined conversations with this Emory dude. Either she got really lucky with her warped imagination, or she had some kind of precognition that allowed her to see the future of the Star Trek series."

"Psychic?"

"Maybe, or just psychotic, but if she did have powers of the mind then it makes her a far more powerful spirit. Which could work in our favor, if this," he raised the book, "twisted reality followed her into death."

"But why?"

"Diary doesn't explain why. The later entries take weird to a whole new level. Her psychosis fast-tracked and she broke her self imposed isolation to go and search for Emory. I can't figure why she chose the subway though."

"Speed."

"It's hardly light speed, though she was searching for Emory so maybe she figured he was in a subway tunnel – maybe she figured he was disguised as a rat?" Dean grinned, seemingly pleased with his inappropriate humor.

"Why take people?"

"Don't know. She was a loner in life, why not be a loner in death?" Dean looked up again and his eyes softened. "You need to rest. We don't need to leave for another few hours, try to get some sleep."

"How did she do it?"

"Sam, you need to rest. I'll tell you more later."

"She dematerialized me, Dean. How the hell did she do it?"

Dean sighed and shrugged. "Dematerializing a living being defies the whole gamut of current scientific thinking. Physics, mathematics, quantum mechanics, Einstein's theory of relativity. You name it and they all say you can't do it. But she did, Sam. Anyway, who's to say that science has it all figured out? If it wasn't for Pythagoras we'd all still think the earth was flat."

Sam stared at his brother in bemused shock.

"What?"

"Pythagoras?"

"Oh c'mon dude, I'm not a total moron."

Sam raised an eyebrow.

"Fine, Larry and Sergey helped me out," Dean said, then added, "Larry Page and Sergey Brin."

"Who?"

Dean opened his hands in an _are you dense_ gesture. Seemingly dissatisfied with Sam's lack of response, he exhaled heavily and said, "The founders of Google. Both guys went to Stanford." He waved one hand dismissively. "You know what, it doesn't matter. Melanie believed in her own madness with such voracious intensity that her spirit was imbued with the ability to defy all natural laws."

"Voracious? Imbued?"

"Yes, Sammy, I have a vocabulary too."

Sam smiled weakly. "So what's the plan?"

"Ah, you want to hear the plan?"

"Yeah, I do."

Dean teased his lower lip with his tongue, the playful banter dying as his gaze raked over Sam, lingering longest on the bandaged hand. He quickly looked down.

"Melanie believed that a transportation could be reversed to restore the original state – sort of like restoring a backup of a saved version of a file." He chewed on his thumbnail, then drew in a breath and continued. "If a transportation went wrong, she believed it could be reversed by putting the person back through and relying on the last known 'saved' version. So we'll go back into the subway. Summon the bitch and get her to put you back on the train. Simple."

Sam stared, chilled and confused. He thought he should speak but had no idea what to say. Dean eyed him and continued.

"We will go back tonight – in a few hours. It will coincide almost perfectly with the anniversary of her death. Seems the disappearances all occurred in the lead-up to her suicide so I'm guessing that once the anniversary passes she goes into dead chick hibernation for another year." Dean scratched at his temple. "Or something."

Sam's focus jumped between the diary and his brother, his mind spinning. "But the reversal has already happened. She's already put me back on the track."

"On the track but not in the train. When she took you through the metal wall of the train, she screwed up the process. She says in here that she can fix it."

"No she can't."

"She says in here that she can. If she takes you back through that train wall, it will heal you."

"No it won't."

Dean rubbed his hands across his thighs, his voice tight. "You got any better ideas, college boy?"

Sam huffed and lay back, exhausted. He had no other ideas at all. None. He eyed his brother. Dean kept his head down, shoulders hunched, poring over Melanie's diary. Clutching at straws, the very same way he had done after Dean had been electrocuted. But a faith healer to heal Dean was very different from going into a subway tunnel and cheating death. "Dean," he said quietly.

Dean's head came up, his eyes bright, hopeful. Sam swallowed hard. "It's okay. I'm okay with it."

Dean tugged on his lower lip, one hand palm down on the book, flattening the spine. "Okay, good." He sucked in a breath, snapped the book closed and stood. "We'll go in three hours, catch the 9:50pm train from South Central, it'll give us six trains to summon—"

"That's not what I meant. We can't go back into that subway. It's not safe and it won't work."

"Since when did you become The Amazing Randi?"

"You can't summon a spirit on your own, and even if you do, she is unpredictable and dangerous."

"So are all the other things we hunt, Sam. It's never stopped us before."

"We've never done anything like this before, and I can't help."

Dean's eyes sparked with a combination of fierce big brother protectiveness and denial induced insanity. "Ted is going to help."

"Ted?"

"Yes, whiny, sniveling stinky Ted." Dean waved toward the reclined and drooling figure in the corner. "The fruit of his loins did this to you, so he can damn well help to fix it."

Sam suddenly laughed, a tortured breathless sound that whittled through his screwed up defective lungs, snaked up his throat and bubbled over his lips like coppery blood. It hurt just the same. But he couldn't stop, and soon he was crying, because insanity drove that road and he was a lashed in passenger. No way out. No way in hell that Dean's demented denial driven plan was going to work.

"Sam, stop. Christ, Sammy, stop."

He couldn't, because it hurt so much and he had no control over any of it. Dean pulled him in, rubbed his back as though he was a child with colic. A colicky baby, he reasoned and that set him off again.

"Are you trying to kill yourself?"

Sam leaned into his brother as tears wet his cheeks and every exhalation came out as a starved, dry wheeze. He pondered Dean's question and realized that maybe he was. Because going back into that subway with a half assed theory that they could summon Melanie's spirit, communicate with her and then get her to put Sam back on the train in the hope that it would heal him, would get them all killed.

"Sam, calm down. This isn't helping."

He tried, really he tried, but as the insane laughter died, Sam could not breathe. Panic clawed at his chest, ripped through his lungs and closed his throat. In his agony driven stupor, Sam cast back to the pain of Professor Sandbaum's experiment and to the horror of breathing without air. Reality and memory blurred, gashed with confusion and fear. He felt a crushing embrace, a hand through his hair, another against his back, something else but he could not breathe and fire burned in his chest and it all made no sense and he felt too weak, too scared… too much. It was all too much.

He thought heard Dean swear, heard the fearful hitch in his brother's voice and that terrified Sam even more – made him struggle harder as his blood boiled and flames burst within.

"Ted. Dammit, I need you!"

Sam's eyes closed as he fisted his uninjured hand in Dean's shirt, then abruptly released and pushed away. He fell, pulled up short by strong arms and a scared, soothing voice. The fire inside reached combustible intensity and Sam fought with everything he had. Except that wasn't much.

"Christ, Sam. Stop!"

His fist hit something and a deep grunt sounded against the harshness of his own desperate gasps.

"Son of a bitch! Ted get the sedation. In the bag. Not that one. Yes. Yes. No, not that. Yes, that. Bring it over here. Now! C'mon!"

Sam rolled onto his side, jarred into stunned submission as pain bored through his injured hand, it stopped him cold. Just for a moment everything became still and complete: nerve endings electrified, every muscle tense and his lungs frozen. The fire vanished and ice invaded, hypothermic cold. His eyes jerked open, wide and staring as he gasped for air that would not come. He felt a pinch at the back of his hand, cool wetness, then a pushed flow against the iced blood in his veins. He choked on a breathless sob as the drug entered his system.

"Christ, Sammy." A cold trembling hand pressed against his cheek, palmed at the tears. "You're okay. It'll be okay."

Sam fought to focus as gentle warmth flooded his veins, erasing the pain, the fear. He gasped, pulled in air and shuddered as it hit his lungs and diffused. The oxygenated flow changed, turned in on itself and grew cold and sharp, tore up his throat and scoured his trachea. He whimpered and tried to pull the tubing away. A shaking hand stilled him.

"It has to be high pressure," Dean said, and he sounded woefully apologetic.

Sam's consciousness swirled, disconnecting body from mind. He thought he heard Dean promise him that he would wake up, that he shouldn't be afraid, that Dean would fix it all, then his eyes closed and he felt no more.


	9. Chapter 9

**BLOOD ON THE TRACKS**

**- Chapter Nine -**

* * *

"It's not working," Ted said, his voice painfully soft, his eyes too bright in the muted torchlight. He moistened parched lips and quietly added, "Your plan to bring Melanie back. It's not working." 

Dean's skin bristled and his fingers tightened on the pages of Latin rituals. He clamped his jaw and chose not to answer. Instead he raised his head and stared into the frigid darkness, the meager beams from the two torches he and Ted had set up doing little to beat away the caliginous dark of the subway tunnel. Now nearing midnight, the cold held a desolate iciness that drove through the layers of clothing, past the paltry front of courage and hope, and sliced Dean's insides apart.

Ted was right. Dean's hurriedly devised plan was not working. Until now he had ignored the clawing reality, denied the truth of it, kept busy with every step of the inane plan he had come up with to save his brother's life. Sam's unconscious state had made things so much harder and absurdly so much easier. The stolen hospital issue wheelchair, Ted's help and a focus on one step at a time had enabled Dean to steer his thoughts away from the truth of his brother's condition. The whole deliriously frantic operation had passed in a rush of action, panic and hurried commands that Ted had unflinchingly obeyed: stop the train in the tunnel, disembark, make it look like a terrorist drill, get Sam off, bullshit to the few passengers whom had witnessed the debacle and then rely on the passengers' wide eyed stupor to evade detection and to keep the trains running. It had worked. Too easy, stunningly so, and it had given Dean false confidence, made him think that his whole plan could work. Now, five trains down, no sign of Melanie and only one train service to go, that confidence lay as a pathetic half memory.

He risked a glance toward his brother. Sam had not yet regained consciousness and that held a darkly veiled blessing all its own – Dean had not had to subdue his injured sibling while enduring the nerve shattering rush of the trains screaming within two feet of their faces. Instead, Sam lay drugged and compliant – mercifully unaware as he breathed with a grated colicky sound that the nasal canula only barely muted. Dean shuddered and looked away.

"I can burn more wormwood," Ted offered, his tone elevated with helpful need.

"None left."

"Does this mean you can't bring her back at all?"

"Summon her spirit. I'm not bringing her back. She's dead."

Silence fell between them, save for the ragged sounds of his little brother's tortured breaths and the sharper smack of the soles of his shoes against the concrete as he paced. He hugged his arms around himself as a headache started a low pulse through his skull.

"She must still be here," Ted offered after several long moments had passed. "Otherwise the train drivers would see us. Isn't that how you said it works? She's hiding us from them, which means she is still here."

Dean blew out a tense breath, squared his shoulders and flicked through the Latin rituals. There had to be something he had missed.

"I wish she had just talked to me. I'm not a mind reader. If I had known, I would have done something to help her."

"I'm trying to concentrate here," Dean snapped as his gaze snatched past Ted and locked on Sam. His chest tightened and his jaw clenched as he took in his little brother's deterioration. A thin stream of blood wove from the younger man's nostrils, from beneath the nasal canula where the high pressure air tore through sensitive tissue. Still, the destructive flow failed to provide Sam with enough oxygen to prevent cyanosis.

"She would never have deliberately hurt him," Ted said quietly. "Not like this. If she knew what she had done, she'd be devastated."

The paper scrunched in Dean's hands as he clenched his fists and took a step forward. Air sucked in between tightly clamped teeth as Dean prepared to let loose – to enlighten Ted on the truth about what his dead daughter had become.

"Dean, he's waking up."

The anger fled. Vaporized in a white haze of panic and relief that moved him to his brother, collapsed his legs from beneath him and jarred a pained grunt as his knees collided sharply with the concrete. Dean cupped his brother's face, lifted Sam's head and tried to see into his eyes. "Sam. Hey, Sammy, talk to me."

The younger man trembled beneath his touch and made soft whining noises that Dean interpreted as falsely formed breaths. His face had a pale moistness and his skin felt a touch too warm. His open eyes shed tears without imparting recognition and Dean had a sudden sickening realization that pain had woken Sam – had roused him to a semi-conscious state then denied him anything more. Dean lightly tapped at his face, shook him, called to him, encouraged as Sam slowly came around. Ted, however, seemed less pleased.

"Dean, stop."

Dean grunted as Ted tugged at the sleeve of his jacket. "Get off."

"He can't talk to you, the pain is too bad. You have to sedate him."

"Like hell. Sam, c'mon little brother, snap out of it. I need you. Sammy, dammit, I need you!"

"Dean, he can't answer you."

"Back the hell off," Dean growled. He pushed Sam against the wall, supported him with one hand against his shoulder and hooked a finger under his chin to bring his head up. Sam's eyes rolled, glazed and wet, and his already compromised breathing took on a hacking infrequency that terrified Dean.

"Dean, he's panicking and making it worse. You have to calm him down!"

"Quit yelling at me!"

"He's suffocating!"

Dean momentarily closed his eyes, his throat closed so tightly he thought he could choke. He roughly pulled Sam into his embrace, rubbed his back, whispered lied assurances while Sam weakly struggled against him. Ted mercifully fell quiet as Dean started a gentle rocking, soothing the twenty-three year old as though he were a tiny baby. The horrific reality of the situation curdled Dean's blood. With only one train to go, no sign of Melanie and Sam's condition rapidly going downhill, Dean was all out of options. He needed his brother, he needed that sharp geek boy mind because his own was shutting down.

"Dean."

A whisper and Dean stilled, gently pushed his brother back and tucked a finger under his chin to lift his head. "Hey," he said throatily, "you with me?"

Sam shuddered, his face pale and waxy in the muted light, his eyes glazed with pain that shaded the intelligence and clarity that Dean so heavily relied upon. Until now, he had not realized just how much.

"Told… you."

"Told me what?"

Sam's eyes tracked slowly, his breathing too harsh, too wrong. "Wouldn't work." Blood slipped into his mouth, hung heavy on his upper lip, smeared his teeth. Sam seemed not to notice.

"I could use some optimism here, Sammy," Dean grated out. "Some help maybe."

Another shudder wracked Sam's body, made him sluggishly draw his limbs in. He cradled the heavily bandaged arm and pushed his head back against the tunnel wall. His eyes remained open, the gaze fixed upwards, languidly blinking. The action dislodged budded tears. "Told… you," he said as he shifted and Dean found his brother's shimmering gaze locked on him. "I can't… help."

Beneath those words and deep in his brother's tear filled eyes lay an apology, an unspoken communication filled with regret, loss and – worst of all – acceptance. Sam was giving up. Giving in. Laying down like a dying dog, going down without a fight. Dean could hardly believe it, and he made no effort to veil the anger that swept through him.

"You know this whole defeatist bullshit you've got going doesn't cut it. You see this as a way out, well I'll be damned if I'll let you take it. You hear me. We're in this together, till the end, and this shit hole of a tunnel is not the end."

Sam looked hurt. Wounded dying puppy sort of hurt, the kind of wet doe eyed expression that Sam seemed unable to ever entirely mask. It cut Dean, sliced him harder than any blade ever could, but he held the gaze because he needed Sam angry, he needed him fighting, he needed more than Sam could ever give.

"You fight, Sam. You owe me that." Dean shoved up and stood, prowled to the weapon's bag and retrieved the medications. He returned to Sam, ignored his brother's wet eyed look and roughly grabbed his hand.

"I'm dying," Sam said and his voice shook, his hand trembled. "Dean, please."

"Winchester's don't beg."

"Christ, Dean. I can't… breathe. She… she dematerialized me."

"No shit. Thanks for the update. Thought you'd stick around for the happy ever after widescreen conclusion instead of going Old Yeller on me." Dean grunted as Sam wrenched his hand away, tucked it against his chest. "What? You want to quit, I'll knock you out and figure it out myself."

"I don't… want to… die. I'm not… giving in."

"Yup, whatever." He reached for his brother's hand again, his jaw tightening as Sam nestled it under the bandaged paw. Out of reach – out of bounds.

"Dean, don't. You're hurting him." Ted reached out, clearly intending to touch Sam, to offer human contact, comfort. Dean snatched his hand and shoved him aside.

"Do not touch him. I'm handling this."

"You're hurting him. What you're saying is cruel."

"No," Dean said as he turned full force onto Ted. "This, all of this is your fault. Every last freakin' second of it. All because you fucked up, couldn't handle your screwy daughter and now Sam is paying for it. Now he's dy…." He panted as the unfinished accusation burned his lips, dried his mouth, tore acid up his throat.

Ted stared, watery red eyes lapping up every hateful word, sucking it in like a proverbial sponge. "I know," he said. "But this, what you are doing to Sam right now, is no better than what I did to Melanie."

Dean flinched, his anger escalating. "Oh, so now you're Dr. Phil," he snarled, the hatred in his voice forcing Ted to move back. "Stay away from my brother and stay the hell away from me."

Sam watched the interchange with wide wounded eyes, his lips parted as he drew in incomplete panted gasps. Dean knew if he shone the torch on Sam's face, he would see the tinge of blue, evidence of cyanosis. He fisted his hands, dug fingernails into his palms, tasted blood as he bit down on his bottom lip. Sam's gaze slowly tracked to his and the vulnerability and pain pushed Dean over the edge.

"You want me to just let you die?" Dean asked, his tone dark, threatening, his anger unrivalled. "Is that it? Is that what you want?"

"No."

"Then what, Sam? Tell me what you want me to do? I'm trying to fix this. But it's not working." He grabbed a handful of papers, shoved them in Sam's face and made him flinch back. "Latin. Every freakin' summoning ritual I could find: classical and ecclesiastical pronunciation. I smoked Wormwood, got Ted to march up and down, got him to recite Latin. Thought that might work. It didn't. Nothing is working, Sam. So you tell me, what am I supposed to do now? I fucking need you! I can't do this alone! I never could. Do you get that?"

Sam stared with glazed eyes, shivering now. The spark of intelligence that Dean had tried to nurture to a bright flame was being quashed by pain and the tugging hand of death. Sam writhed weakly, his uninjured hand fisted into the hospital issue top, clenched and unclenched and Dean knew then that he had made an awful unforgivable mistake. He had misjudged his proud, strong brother, mocked his pain and accused him of giving in. And worse, Sam was dying and all Dean could do in these last hours with his sibling was bawl him out.

Dean's vision shimmered. His anger evaporated – sucked out and left him aching and raw. No better than the bald headed professor who had taken Sam off oxygen. The professor had his motives for allowing Sam to suffer, Dean had his own. One and the same, the outcome for his physically helpless brother… indescribable pain. Dean tasted bile in the back of his throat as he fished for the sedation. Full dose, he thought blindly. It'd buy the most time – give him a chance to get Sam out of the tunnel and… then what Dean did not know. But he would find a way. Contacts, searches, he would find a way.

Dean no longer dared look at his brother's face, look into those expressive eyes and see the pain there. He checked the medication, double checked, made absolutely sure he knew what he was doing. No way in hell he would make a mistake now. He reached for Sam's hand, the one with the IV port, the one tucked behind the bulky bandage that hid the fingers Dean had more or less cut off his brother's body.

Sam had never asked how Dean knew how to correctly administer the sedation, how to give him just enough so that he floated, didn't lose consciousness. Sam's nurse had explained why, had shown Dean how. He smiled just the right number of times with just the perfect lip curl and flash of teeth and Lauren the bubbly brunette had never suspected a thing. Stealing the drugs had been a little harder, and the oxygen tank had been a bitch, but Ted had helped. Created a diversion that had bought Dean time. Now all of that had led to this. He could not even contemplate what this was.

He lightly touched Sam's bandaged hand, the contact burned his psyche, seared through his mind and branded him with the recognition of all he had done wrong. He reached further, wrapped gentle fingers around his brother's uninjured wrist, felt the too fast pulse against his fingertips. Drew the limb away from his brother's chest and refused to look at his face.

"This will put you to sleep – take away the pain," he murmured the words, let the unspoken apology hang. Should say _sorry_, but it seemed to close to _goodbye_ and he would never say that to Sam. Not now. Not ever. Not like this.

Then Sam resisted. Drew the limb back in a jerked, barely coordinated motion and Dean had no choice but to raise his head in question.

"Tell me… again," Sam rasped.

"Tell you what?" He searched Sam's face, knew his brother had limited resources left to function, the pain unimaginable – carved into the lines on his face, the blue cast to his lips, the beads of sweat that reflected as tiny crystal orbs until they beaded and fell, and the tears. "Sam, what?" His own voice croaked, hoarse and broken.

Sam's mouth tightened and he grew even paler and Dean thought he might be sick.

"You need to sleep," Dean said as he reached to reclaim the arm, the IV port that would give him access to his brother's vein, an ability to inject the sedative that would knock Sam out. So much about it all was so fucking wrong.

Again Sam tucked the arm away, the action seeming to cost him and Dean had the awful feeling that his angered attack on his sibling had pushed Sam to believe he deserved to suffer. The thought physically sickened him, and he reached out again, with a little more force.

"Dean."

Dean stilled, frozen more by the pain in his little brother's voice than the fact Sam had said his name. He held his breath, syringe in one hand, Sam's too cool skin against his fingertips. Then he saw it, what he had missed before, almost hidden behind the pain and the fear – frustration. Sam wanted to help, but couldn't – at least not in a way that either of them was used to.

Dean licked his lips and barely dared to hope. "You want me to go over everything I've tried?"

He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw Sam nod. It was so hard to know for sure, the kid looked absolutely wrecked, but Dean really had no other option so he worked through all he had tried. Named every ritual, showed Sam the text, flipped through Melanie's journal so Sam could see every page, did it in such a hurry because there wasn't time to do anything else. Then he waited.

And waited.

And Ted hovered and clucked his tongue and whispered that Dean was cruel, Dean was heartless and Dean was hurting his little brother. And slowly Dean fell apart, the only thing that stopped him from shattering was the grasp he kept on his brother's wrist. Each time he tried to draw Sam's hand to him, to line up the syringe with the IV port, Sam would weakly tug away. That's how they communicated, because it seemed Sam saved his words for when he figured it out. Except Dean doubted that he could.

"The next train is in five minutes," Ted said. "What do you need me to do?"

Dean glanced at him, shook his head and drew his attention back to Sam.

"Any ideas rolling around in that freaky head of yours?" Dean asked hopefully. He ducked his head, rubbed Sam's arm and tried to ignore how badly his brother trembled. He let a beat pass then added, "You did good, Sammy. Real good."

Again he drew Sam's arm toward him, but this time he did not allow Sam to draw back. Wasn't hard to line up the syringe, slip it into the IV port.

"No!"

Dean looked up, breathing hard. "Sam, what?"

Sam's eyes rolled, tears leaked down his face as he wheezed with sounds that no human should ever make. His chin trembled, his lips twitched and his eyes widened as he sought to figure it all out.

"It's okay," Dean soothed. "The answer isn't here."

Sam's eyes widened further as his gaze ping-ponged the weakly lit subway, locking on nothing as he scanned.

"Four minutes," Ted said.

"Shit. Okay, Sam. I'm taking you down. You don't need to be awake for this."

He started to depress the plunger, unprepared when Sam tore his arm away. "Klingon," he grunted as he pressed himself against the wall. He stayed there only a moment then slid down.

When Sam's shoulder hit the floor of the subway walkway, he did not move again. With a sick heart, Dean realized Sam had lost consciousness. No need to sedate him, his abused and failing body would keep him in a place where he would feel no pain.

Dean hurled the syringe onto the track. All for nothing. All Sam's pain, all the anger between them, the suffering, for nothing. He felt weak, drained, the air suffocating and cold as hope bled through his fingers.

Ted helped him to arrange Sam's body into the recovery position, and Dean did not berate him when the older man touched Sam's face, his own features creased in sympathetic pain. "He's so young," Ted said.

Dean looked away. Stood and hugged his arms around himself. Hesitated then stooped to collect the pages of Latin.

"What did he say?" Ted asked. He had not yet moved from Sam's side and now had his daughter's diary unopened in one hand.

"Nothing."

"But I thought—"

"He was pain dazed, Ted." He glanced at his brother, but his gaze could not hold and he shifted his attention to the dark tunnel. Within minutes another train would pass. "We'll try the Latin again. Once more. Then we'll leave."

"I'm sure he said something."

Dean clenched his hands and shook his head.

"It might mean something. What did he say?"

"Ted—"

"Please."

"Kingen, Clenon, something. I don't know."

"Klingon?"

Dean shrugged, distracted. "Yeah, something like that."

Ted bowed his head, flipped through the diary, his hands shaking. Dean ignored him and gathered up the equipment and rituals for one last attempt. It would fail, he felt it as a gnawing in his bones.

"Heghlu'meH QaQ jajvam," Ted looked up, but to Dean it seemed the older man looked right through him. "Klingon," he said after a moment. His focus shifted, came to present and he smiled. "I know how to reach her. How to make her come."

Dean simply shook his head, his eyebrows raised in confusion, his arms loose at his sides. He felt so heavy, as though the air had thickened, pressed down on him. He dropped to the concrete walkway, pressed in beside Sam, checked his pulse, his breathing, adjusted the nasal canula. Any excuse to touch his brother, to feel him, to know that despite the bitter certainty of the future, that right now Sam still lived.

Ted offered Melanie's journal to Dean. "We'll summon her with Klingon, not Latin."

Dean stared at the mixture of nonsensical letters strung into what might be words. He shivered and threaded shaking fingers through his little brother's hair. Hadn't done that since they were children and Sam would crawl into his lap and fall asleep in his arms. The bestest big brother, Sam's hero. Some hero now.

"She'll come," Ted said as tapped at the page. "This will bring her." He sounded childishly optimistic, like a kid at Christmas who left cookies and milk for the fat man who rode the flying reindeer. Ted looked down at Dean and smiled with rotted teeth and parched lips that pulled back into an encouragingly perverted smile. "I know she will come."

Dean was not so sure.


	10. Chapter 10

AN: Here's the last chapter (before the epilogue). Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far, your encouragement and support has been overwhelming, and greatly appreciated. Note that this chapter is double the length of the others. You'll see why when you get to mid-point. I figured that you've endured enough cliff-hangers from me with this story, so I couldn't in good conscience torment you with one more before the end. Enjoy:-)

**BLOOD ON THE TRACKS**

**- Chapter Ten -**

* * *

Ted spat and chewed his way through the fabricated Star Trek language with sprayed spittle and forceful grunts. Dean watched with a sick heart as the older man ploughed through the script with something close to glee: evidently convinced that the bizarre dialect would summon his daughter in a way that no Latin ritual would. Dean doubted it. 

He had not moved from Sam's side. Every thirty seconds or so his hand slipped to Sam's neck to feel his pulse as unoxygenated blood pushed through resistant veins. Dying from the inside out, the slow deterioration invisible, bar for the blood on Sam's upper lip and the blue tinge to his face and hand. But Dean could ignore those, angle the torch just right so it seemed that Sam merely slept.

He sniffed and threaded his fingers through Sam's hair. Over and over, a repetitive pattern that passed over the same smooth ridges of his brother's skull. Oil and sweat from his fingers combined to gel the brunette strands into loose tufts. Probably could make Sammy a punk Mohawk if he tried. But he didn't, because his hand shook too badly and his vision had an odd shimmering bend that denied dexterity. Don't do it unless you do it right. That applied to sibling Mohawks – it applied to everything – and Dean couldn't do it right.

Ted abruptly snapped and snorted, his lips vibrating in anfractuous pronunciation and Dean flinched, startled as much by the sound as the spittle that sprayed his face. The briefest of hesitation, a quick glance and the older man launched back into it. Dean looked away, let the spit dry on his face and just kept threading, layering strand upon strand of his brother's hair until they stood upright of their own volition.

More splurged Klingon tore up the air, louder and faster, voiced with a frenetic scourge of rabid insanity. Dean opened his mouth to issue a verbal halt to the older man, but a sharp iced cold against the back of his neck stopped him. His senses immediately sharpened, his vision cleared as he scanned for the rock salt, the shot gun, the weapon's bag. All just out of reach. The cold intensified and Ted clued in. His head came up and his jaw slackened, his breath fanned in the frigid air.

"Melanie, my dear Melanie," Ted said, his voice raw, breathless. Tears shimmered in his eyes and shone as dying stars in the muted light.

Dean stretched imperceptibly as fingers tingled and adrenalin warmed. The shotgun lay less than a foot away, loaded and primed.

"Father?"

For a dead psychotic dematerializing bitch, she sounded unnervingly… normal. Dean shivered and stretched in a slow deliberate movement, one hand on Sam, one arm outstretched.

"Father, I don't understand why you are here."

"To see you." Ted stepped forward, tucked the diary into a pocket and splayed his hands out, palms forward. "I'm sorry for not being there for you. You needed me and I wished I had known."

"Known what?"

"That you were ill."

Dean inwardly cursed. Ted had agreed not to piss off the dead bitch – at least not until Dean had her in the shotgun sights.

"I'm not ill," Melanie said, her tone hitched up, indignantly dangerous.

Dean leaned further away from Sam, the growing gap as he reached for the weapon setting a warning throb through him. Ted took another step forward, another unscripted move and Sam shuddered, unconsciously sensing the danger, the hypothermic freeze to the air. Melanie noticed.

"You brought him back?"

"Yes, he's hurt. But you can—"

"He fought me, father. You picked him and he defied you."

"I… what?" Ted's head swiveled, his haggard features scrunched in confusion. He glanced at Dean, at Sam before he lifted his gaze to his dead daughter. "Melanie, no. I… oh God, is that what you think? Is that how you—"

"Father, don't be bashful. You've been trying to pick my friends for years. Dinner parties, invitations, meetings. I don't like it and don't want it. I've told you that."

"Then, if you—" He wrung his hands. "If you think I'm still picking your friends, then why do you take them?"

"To save your feelings, of course."

Ted blanched, his mouth gaped but no sound came out, just a wisp of frosted breath against the frigid air.

Dean's flesh crawled as he extended his reach, so close now that his fingertips teased the metal of the shotgun. Another inch and he could grab it.

"And," she added, as though in afterthought, "Emory suggested it."

"Emory." Ted knuckled his hands, the skin alabaster over the smooth bones. "Have you seen him, spoken to him?"

"Why?"

"I… thought he might help."

"He's busy."

Dean grasped the shotgun, cinched it toward him and held his breath.

Ted plucked at his overcoat and dug his hands into the pockets. Dean tensed, afraid that the drunkard would withdraw the diary, but Ted seemed to gain control of his tremulous emotions and his hands stilled. "Why the train?"

"Emory said he would meet me here."

"And… and did he?" Ted asked, his voice soft and sick sounding.

She fell quiet for a moment, then said, "What's his name?" She must have gestured to Sam because Ted's gaze dropped.

"Sam. He's about your age. The age you were when…." He blinked and his eyes glinted against the shadows.

"So who's that guy?"

Dean did not let Ted answer, he now had enough information to work with, and he grasped the shotgun and whirled. Simultaneously he felt Sam wrenched away. Ted side stepped, splayed his arms out, blocked Dean's aim. The old man looked shaky, pale faced, his bloodshot eyes wide. Melanie crouched behind, on her knees beside Sam, her face cast in shadows that made the dead flesh seem to glow. Dean fluidly pushed to his feet and moved so he had Melanie in his sights.

The five foot-nothing spirit had pulled Sam three feet down the subway, dislodged the nasal canula, left his limbs splayed half off the walkway, half on the track. His injured left arm lay across the rail, his face turned toward it. Still unconscious and unmoving… and now without oxygen.

"Don't shoot," Ted said, he palmed one hand outward. "Please, Dean, don't shoot her. I need—"

"Ted, zip it."

Melanie's head came up, her eyes fixed on Dean, dark dead orbs within a milk pale face. The red hair looked almost black in the absence of light. Every instinct told Dean to fire, to blast her full of rock salt and get her the hell away from Sam. But he couldn't, because he needed her.

"Who are you?" she asked, her tone as frosty as the air around them.

"Dean Archer. Emory sent me."

Her dead fingers cupped Sam's face and one thumb traced the ridge of his cheekbone. "How do you know Emory?"

"I'm Jonathon Archer's nephew," Dean said. Melanie's eyes narrowed and the air grew impossibly colder. Dean tightened his grip on the shotgun as cold sweat made him shiver. "Captain Archer, the Starfleet officer—"

"I know who he is."

"Okay, so Emory came to my uncle for help after he lost his son during an accident with the transporter. I knew a few things, helped out here and there. Helped him with Quinn."

"Quinn died. You couldn't have been much help."

Dean schooled his reaction as his stomach clenched in fear. He literally felt the seconds tick past, time that leached away Sam's life, and time that brought the already delayed train closer. "We've learned from that mistake," he added, a painful knot forming in his gut as she showed little response.

The unperturbed expression remained as Sam twitched beneath her touch, a tremor that might have been the beginnings of a convulsion or an attempt to regain consciousness. Dean realized it was mostly likely the former, with Sam off oxygen his system would go into shock and death would quickly follow. His fingers gripped the shotgun, the aching need to go to his sibling almost obliterating the stamina it took to remain unmoving. Only Melanie could fix this, and until he gained her trust he could do nothing to help Sam.

Ted, however, apparently lacked Dean's fortitude. The older man lurched forward, snagged the oxygen tank and dropped to his knees beside Sam. Melanie tipped back, her form flickering and Dean held his breath, his heart hammering as Ted reattached the nasal canula with shaking hands.

Melanie's form stabilized. "What is that? What are you doing?"

"He can't breathe," Ted said thickly. "His lungs, you… the dematerialization ruined his lungs."

"No, he's got a low pain tolerance, that's all. There's nothing wrong with him."

"Melanie, he's dying. Unless you can fix this, he will die. You're killing him, like you killed nine others."

"Ted," Dean warned, his mouth pasty and dry. He swallowed convulsively and continued, "Melanie wants to hear about Emory, about the message I have from him."

Ted ducked his head, his shoulders slumped. He carefully tucked Sam's bandaged hand in against his chest and checked the canula again. "He's still breathing, but…." he trailed off, his voice choked.

Dean stiffened and looked past the Ted to Melanie. "Emory sent me to help you fix this, and once you do I'll take you to him. He wants to see you. He has a mission for you."

She watched him impassively, her gaze unflinching as Ted stood and shuffled away from Sam. Dean again had a clean line of sight.

"There is nothing to fix."

"This one is dying," Dean prodded toward Sam. "The dematerialization didn't work. You have to reverse it. You have to put him back on the train. Emory wants you to prove to him that you can. He is waiting for you to fix this, then he'll—"

"Will Emory let me keep him?"

Dean's pulse thrummed wildly. He felt sure he could feel the forward sweep of air from an approaching train. "Yeah, okay, whatever you want."

She searched his face, before her focus shifted, sliced across Sam laying unconscious at her feet, to Ted standing hang-dog to one side before going back to Dean. Their gaze met and Dean had a sudden premonitory rush of fear. Even before she spoke, he knew she was not going to do it.

"No," she said, as her form flickered. The words echoed and danced, tossed against the darkened concrete walls like blood on a garish canvas. "Father chose him for me. Emory and his mission can go to hell."

Dean fired before the echo faded, before she had even stopped speaking. Fast, but not fast enough. She moved, flashed and a grey mist molded into the darkness as the air seethed with cold light. Dean fired off a shot, then another as the mist shuddered and punched toward him. The shots went wild as the weapon tore from his hands and the concrete ripped out from under him. He landed on the track in the darkness, inches from the live third rail, his shoulder and back burning. Heart pounding, Dean sprang to his feet, scampered across the track and used Ted as a shield in an attempt to get the gun, to get to Sam. Figured she wouldn't use Daddy as a throw toy. Wrong.

She screeched an unholy wail, lifted them both and tossed them into the darkness of the tunnel. Dean hit the concrete and rolled, instinctively reaching for Ted even as he was still moving. He caught the older man and forcefully yanked him away from the electrified rail. They ended up on their backs, legs twisted and arms caught. Dean felt something crack in his wrist as he scrambled to his feet. He ignored it and took off in a sprint, back toward the light – twin beams in the darkness. The two torches that still burned. Then one went out.

Dean faltered, his mouth thick and dry. The second torch flickered and Dean could see his brother, unconscious and defenseless, Melanie crouched over him. She looked up, their gaze met and she smiled – a self congratulatory grin that left no room for misunderstanding. She had Sam and she aimed to keep him.

The last torch died and so did a part of Dean. He screamed and sprinted, legs pumping through the sludge of ineptitude and regret. Ted called out, a lost lonely sound of anguish that mirrored Dean's own. It sounded sort of like Klingon, but immeasurably worse.

Dean fell. Went down hard onto hands and knees. Pain speared through his right wrist and he yelped and rolled, struggled back to his feet. Darkness teased and toyed, raised the hackles on his neck as distant light speared the darkness, and the soft whisper of air licked his sweat slicked skin. He jerked toward it, choked and panicked as darkness shaded to grey.

Shadows loped along the walls, long and thin, twisted and playfully sadistic. Dean felt wetness on his cheeks, licked cold by the frigid air. He turned toward the oncoming train, saw Ted still on the tracks, twenty feet away, standing stock still. Dean's heart thumped, pulsed against his ribcage, threatened to burst right out of his chest. Enough light now to see the walkway, to see that Sam really had gone. No long limbed, shaggy haired, blue lipped kid brother. Just sheets of paper, their edges flapping in the wind, the weapon's bag and shot gun.

The train rounded the curve of the tunnel as Dean reached Ted.

"Get off the track."

Ted regarded him with deliberate certainty. "I'm a part of this. She chose them because of me. I have to stop her."

"Not by killing yourself." Dean snagged the older man's grimy overcoat and wrenched him to the side. Ted came willingly, a touch too willingly Dean realized as Ted threw a punch that smashed him into the wall. His ears rang even as he retaliated, almost blinded by the light that speared the tunnel as the train bore down. He grabbed Ted and locked on. "No," Dean seethed. "You summon her again. You get her back. You don't get out of this now."

"It's too late."

"Don't say that. Don't you fucking dare!"

"Heghlu'meH QaQ jajvam. Today is a good day to die."

"No! You're Sam's only chance. You die and it's over."

Dean's words cauterized in his throat, burned hard and sharp somewhere in his trachea as the train bore down. Ted did not respond, and Dean probably would not have heard anyway because the train was so close now that Dean could taste the steel. He had a solid hold of Ted, a firm grip with one hand, but Ted was a slimy old bastard who had a history and skills that Dean did not understand. He targeted Dean's broken wrist even before Dean realized he could. Caught the injured limb and smashed it against the concrete wall.

Dean cried out, his knees jellied and his grip on Ted's overcoat loosened. Ted punched him again. The blow smashed Dean's head against the wall, muddied his consciousness and he fell, dazed, unable to resist as Ted kicked his legs to the side. He struggled weakly, flailed with one hand and caught the edge of what might have been Ted's overcoat. The contact severed when something snagged his broken wrist and clamped down, blending bones and flesh into a chaotic mix of blinding pain. He gasped and stiffened, barely stifling a cry as Ted pried free and pushed him away.

"I'm sorry," he heard the old man say as the train descended. Hundreds of tons of pressed steel and molded metal: cruelly uncaring of the fragility of the human form. He heard a wet thud, a dull formless sound and then the warmth of sprayed blood.

Dean choked and instinctively shied away, pulled closer to the concrete wall as sparked metal screeched within two feet of him. A sob caught low in his throat as the train sliced jagged blades through his already crumbling sanity. Pain and horror took Dean down, bled out his consciousness with a lethal certainty that denied resistance: Sam was gone and he was not coming back.

* * *

"You have to come with us." 

Dean lay on his back on the concrete walkway, the subway tunnel walls looming overhead. He blinked and squinted as a face appeared in his field of view.

"Sir, get up."

Dean jerked and came upright, almost banging his head against the concrete wall as he did.

Two men stood before him, the one who had spoken leaned down and peered at him. "Are you injured?"

He stared, disoriented as memories swirled through his mind in dizzying fragments. He fingered his throbbing jaw even as he squinted and tried to put the confused jigsaw pieces into place. Still in the tunnel, the concrete walls daubed with hues of red. He stared dumbly before he realized that the light came from the rear of a train that quietly idled somewhere close. The last train, Dean thought dazedly.

"I'm dead, right?" He gestured toward the train. "And that's the train car to Hell."

The bushy headed blonde, a thin scar along one side of his face and his features weathered and aged, extended a hand. "No, you're not dead." He spoke softly in a harsh guttural sort of way. "But you do need to come with us."

"To where?" Dean prodded at his jaw then dropped his gaze to his denim clad legs, unsure of what he expected to see. Checked one more time before he stood, and then looked down again as he wobbled.

Blood. He remembered then, his clothes had been bathed in blood. He had felt it, the warm splash of Ted's evisceration. Dean's hand fell to his side, then of its own volition touched at his jacket and thighs. Came away clean. No blood, no gore.

"Sir, are you hurt?"

He patted again, bowed his head and peered through the red tinged light at his denim jeans and leather coat, plain blue shirt. Unmarked, unstained. Dean's muscles stiffened and his blood turned icy. What the hell had happened?

"Sir, if you refuse to come willingly, we will use force."

Dean back-stepped, banged into the concrete wall. Blood snaked through his veins, curdled and thick through organs and viscera, slowing his pulse, shadowing his vision. Ted's body had to be close, at least parts of it. Dean had felt the warm, coppery spurt of exsanguination – no way that evidence could have disappeared.

Dean shoved past the two uniformed men and stumbled onto the track. Red bathed the line, painted blood rich hues on the tunnel wall, lit the metal rails with an hematic glow.

"Sir."

"Where's Ted?" he spat out as he felt the two men draw near. He raised his head. "Where is he? If he's not dead, then where is he?"

The two men shared a glance, and the taller one, older by at least ten years, moved one hand behind his back, reached for something that Dean could not see.

"He's got to be here," Dean said. "Rat eaten khaki overcoat, hair like Santa Clause on a bender, eyes redder than—. No! Back off. Don't touch me!"

One of the men withdrew the object. A weapon. Looked like a pistol, but bulkier, squarer: taser.

Dean sneered, threw his hands in the air and shuffled back. "Find me Ted then I'll come. If he's dead then the carcass should be around here somewhere." He whirled in a full three sixty. "Can you see it? Be hard to miss. Just look for the severed head." He laughed then, though it sounded more like a demented cackle.

More shared glances. Unspoken communication. Dean ducked his head, his vision blurring. "He was with me. He was here. Here. Right here."

"There is no-one else with you, sir."

Cuffs appeared then, metal and shining. Blood red in the light, the glint catching Dean's eye, making him wince, making everything all the more gloriously horrific. "She'll put him back. It's what she does with all of them. But he'll be dead by then, so it doesn't really matter. I screwed up, I let him down. I failed. No! Dammit, stay back."

"Raise your hands over your head and turn around."

Dean raised his hands, grimacing at the throbbing in his wrist, the pain that speared right through to the centre of him. Nothing to what Sam would have felt when the train cut off his fingers. Dean's breath caught, ripped somewhere in his trachea and held, grew into a jagged, painful constriction that seemed sure to physically kill him. Another step back as the men moved closer.

They moved fast, a coordinated assault that whipped Dean's legs out from beneath him, threw him face down to the track, a knee in the small of his back. He let out a muffled cry as they caught his injured wrist, cinched it behind his back and snapped cold metal around it. The other the same. They marched him back to the train. All the way along the walkway, single file, to the front carriage. Pulled him into the train car, ordered a blonde girl and her dread-locked companion from a seat and pushed him into it.

"Stay."

The harsh command begged a retort, a stinging come-back, but Dean had nothing. He bowed his head, kept pressure on his wrist, working and twisting until the pain made him breathless. Still his mind whirred at a hideous pace: memories and facts. The bitter God-awful truth: Ted had killed himself and taken with him Dean's last hope of ever getting Sam back alive, in one piece… or at all.

"Is this the last train for the night?" His voice broke as he raised his head and made eye contact with the burly man who sat opposite, the second of the men who had apprehended him.

The man's eyes narrowed, then he slowly nodded. "What are you doing down here?"

"Why did you stop?"

"Frank thought he saw something on the track. Seems he was right. How on earth did you get down here?"

Dean lowered his gaze, his chin trembling. The last train. Melanie's reign over for another year. She must have released the shroud the moment she took Sam, made it possible for the train driver to see them. Dean shuddered, bit down on his lower lip because the pain through his wrist just wasn't enough. Coppery warmth touched his tongue as the train started off. He abruptly stood, braced his feet against the pitch and roll and again made eye contact with the burly attendant.

"Sit down."

"I can't," Dean said as the older man withdrew the taser and discretely rested it on his thigh.

The temptation to run, to attack, to do something just so the man would taser him, made Dean's flesh tingle. But it would not knock him out, just slow him down and he'd be back in his seat. And he couldn't… sit. Not now. Maybe not ever.

"I need to walk," Dean said, hating the quiet desperation, the heart-felt plea. "Please."

"Sit down."

"I'm cuffed, I can't do anything. I can't hurt anyone. I just need to walk. I can't sit here. I can't. I just can't."

"You on anything?"

"No."

"Strung out?"

"No."

A long pause, then the man leaned forward. "You're that kid they found in the tunnel the other night, with the other one and that drunk." He wet his lips, his gaze softening. "I heard about that and…." he trailed off, his expression searching. "Damn… that's rough."

Dean clenched his jaw to still his trembling chin and averted his gaze. Sam: his kid brother, the young man that Dean would sell his soul to keep safe, who he had fought his whole life to protect, was gone. And Dean had nothing left of him, nothing to bury, nothing tangible to mourn.

He sharply twisted the cuffs behind his back and made them dig in. The man's lips kept moving, but the white rush of blood against Dean's eardrums drowned out all sound and temporarily obliterated his memories.

He saw the taser move, lifted slightly, and figured there was some significance. A threat, a warning. Permission. Dean did not know. Did not care. Just had to move. So he did, stiffly, with precision jerkiness, knees locked at each weight bear. Reached the end of the carriage, and came to an abrupt stop when a hand curled around his upper arm.

"This carriage only."

Dulled panic edged in, made his senses crackle, his fingertips needle with an undefined sensation. He swallowed hard and peered into the next carriage. Almost empty, save for a middle aged couple, the woman's head lolled on her partner's shoulder. Asleep.

He took a step forward and the hand on his bicep tightened. He shrugged the grip and twisted away to avoid being grabbed for a second time. Backed into a corner, Dean panted heavily and struggled for composure. "I'm not… I can't…" He shakily drew in a full breath, grimacing as he twisted his bound hands behind his back.

"You need to sit down."

Dean shook his head, met the older man's gaze and read compassion and pity. His breath hitched as he jerked his head and looked into the next carriage. A low sob forced its way through his constricted larynx, came out as a pitiful, mortifying grunt – proof that he had lost more than he could possibly bear.

"Sammy," he breathed as he slid to the floor, unable to withhold a groan as his hand connected with the wall. He twisted his neck to stare into the next carriage. Things looked better in there. The air fresher, less constricting – less claustrophobic. Maybe in there he could breathe. Maybe in there he would wake from the nightmare, because no way could it be real.

He rose, using his elbows to gain leverage as the train swayed and the metal wheels squealed. He moved quickly, his self appointed body guard moved quicker.

"Don't make me tazer you," the man said, his mouth close to Dean's ear, his breath warm against the side of Dean's face.

Dean wanted anger, rage, desperate homicidal fury, but instead he got empty numbness, tears and a trembling lower lip. He forced his head up, met the older man's gaze and almost said something, but didn't because it hurt too damned much.

"Okay," the man relented, his eyes deep with pity. "But I'm staying with you."

That seemed a fair deal, so Dean sniffed, straightened his shoulders and moved into the next carriage. And then the next, and then the next. He didn't even realize he was searching until he heard voices that he recognized. One in particular, slightly high pitched and mocking. Dean quickened his step, grunted as the train took another curve that threw him of balance and jarred his hip into the side of the seat.

A hand touched his arm, he shook it off and entered the last carriage. Saw them then, the three thugs from only twenty four hours before: the night Sam had been taken. His hands clenched and his breathing grew shallow and focused. Before he could exact any homicidal fury, his attention jerked to the figure sprawled on the seat, and his eyes widened in stunned disbelief.

Ted.

Stinky, whiny, sniveling Ted. Scrappy shoes, stained overcoat, his soiled body rocking with every beat of the train's motion.

"What the hell?"

The three thugs stood over the drunkard, blocking most of Dean's view, and Dean could barely function let alone think. Images flashed through his mind, memories and sensations too horrible to process. Too many involved Sam, but Sam was gone and Ted was dead. So what the hell was this?

Dean's mind reeled and he backed up, nudged into the man who held a tazer against his back, but seemed to lack the will to use it. Dean muttered in silent horror as he stared at an image of mummified déjà vu. What was this? Ground Hog Day? A dream. Nightmare.

Frozen in paralyzed awe, Dean struggled to stop his mind from catastrophic meltdown. He scanned, breathlessly searching for Sam. Everything else looked the same, the thugs, the drunk… but no Sam.

"Got the picture, Grandpa?" the eldest youth drawled as he rifled through the old man's pockets. "Hey! Here she is. Woo hee, finest piece of ass I seen in a while."

Dean swallowed convulsively, breathing hard and fast, panicked shallow breaths that threatened hyperventilation.

"You should sit down," the man behind him said.

Dean flinched, jerked away, maybe he grunted, yelled, did something to attract attention because he found the three thugs staring at him. Not Ground Hog Day, Dean realized as the youth dropped the photo, wrenched his buddies almost off their feet and high tailed it toward the end of the carriage.

"Hey!" Dean's unwelcome shadow yelled. "Hey, you three, stop that."

Dean found himself shoved down, pushed into a seat, a tazer waved menacingly at him and some words that rushed past Dean's ears like a tidal wave, then the man turned on his heel and chased after the three thugs.

Ted.

Stinky, sniveling, whiny Ted. Back on the train. Impossible. Dean had felt him die. Had he been a ghost all along? A disembodied spirit just like his dead daughter. Working in tandem with his kid to lure victims to their deaths – working in tandem to kill Sam?

Dean pushed to his feet. The cuffs dug in, breached the violent attempts to break free as he closed the space between he and the son of a bitch that had taken his brother.

"Ted," he snarled, low and guttural. "You screwed up this time, buddy-boy."

He reached the seat, stood over the splayed out scourge of humanity, the white hospital gown just peeking past the stained overcoat. Dean's hands clenched, the metal restraints dug in, spiked pain through his forearm and cleared his mind. With a deliberate calm, he stepped up onto the seat opposite Ted, cocked his head to the side and narrowed his gaze.

"I'm guessing you can bleed. Feel pain. Suffer. And that bitch won't be back for you until next year."

He kicked the khaki coated figure, a boot into his back, hard enough to bruise. The man moaned, low and deep and Dean stilled, his shoe poised in mid air. His heart thumped and he almost toppled before awkwardly regaining his balance. Skin prickled and something nudged at his psyche, raised the hackles on the back of his neck, made his breath catch in his throat. The figure moved again, long legs beneath the stained over-coat. Longer limbs than Dean remembered. Ted had been just under six feet tall, but this man exceeded that. Dean froze, literally grew as still and as cold as stone. His gaze roamed, sucked up the sight of the figure before him, sorted and catalogued the visual stimuli as his heart pounded and blood rushed.

Shoulders: too broad.

An arm: too muscular.

Hair, the little he could now see: brunette, shaggy, not grey and wiry.

"Sammy," the name fell off his lips as he dropped from the seat, collapsed to the floor, jarred something in his hip, almost severed his consciousness with the pain that knifed through his wrist. He crouched before the man he recognized as his brother though he knew it could not be true. Sam looked wrong, smelled wrong and his presence defied all known logic, but Dean knew.

And so it seemed did Sam because the younger man raised his head before Dean could try to touch him. Sam looked exhausted, dull eyed, hair disheveled and his skin pale. But he breathed with a consistent soft regularity that told of exhaustion, not abnormality. Dean grinned despite himself then chuckled almost manically as he wriggled his hands in an attempt to free them. "Christ, you look like shit," he burst out as Sam blinked owlishly.

"Am I dead?" Sam asked, his voice deep with confusion.

Dean almost choked as he sucked in a relieved breath. He fell forward, forehead pressed against Sam's. His eyelashes fluttered against the bridge of his brother's nose. "No, you're not dead," he said breathily, "but freakin' hell dude, you stink."


	11. Epilogue

**BLOOD ON THE TRACKS**

**- Epilogue -**

* * *

"So he's fine?" 

Sam glanced at his brother then looked up at the doctor. The woman studied her charts, tucked an errant strand of graying blonde hair behind one ear and took a moment. Dean shuffled, his hands in his pockets and posture tense. The white cast on his broken wrist stood out as a bulky obstruction on the older man's forearm, only partially hidden beneath the trademark black jacket. Getting that set and casted had taken considerably less time than Sam's tests, scans and endless prodding.

"Yes," Doctor Winfried finally said. She smiled at them both then fixed on Sam. "I can find no explanation for the shortness of breath that you described, and the radiology tests on your hand have come back showing no abnormalities. I can run further tests, but unless the symptoms recur, there's not a lot I can do. You did say the breathing difficulties were fleeting."

"Yeah, and I feel fine now." Sam snagged his shirt and slipped into it. "I'd been tackled to the ground, could that have done it?"

"You hadn't mentioned a physical blow."

"I, ah, didn't think it would cause breathing difficulties."

"If you were winded, yes, it could. Where exactly were you hit?"

Sam gestured in the general area of his diaphragm as Dean's formerly tense expression melted into a smirk. The forty something year old doctor pushed aside Sam's shirt and pressed cold hands against his abdomen. Dean sauntered to the door and peered out, the fourth time he had done so. Sam's anxiousness ramped up. This wasn't the same hospital he had been admitted to over twenty four hours before – Dean had said that he had chosen a different one. So what was Dean looking for?

"There doesn't appear to be any bruising. Lay back again, I'll check for tenderness."

"I'm fine," Sam started. He watched as Dean stepped into the hallway, ducked his head both ways then moved out of sight. Sam pushed against the doctor's hands. "Really, I'm fine."

"Mr Bowman, please lay back."

Sam reluctantly acquiesced, unconsciously tensing as the doctor found a tender point and pressed down.

"Does that hurt?"

"No," Sam lied. He eyed the doorway. Where the hell was Dean?

"Roll onto your side."

Sam frowned and reluctantly shifted so he lay on his side, facing the door, one arm loosely outstretched. He flinched when the doctor touched his back, low down, near the waistband of his jeans.

"You've got a bruise here, is that where you were struck?"

"Yeah, must be," he said as he felt her lightly press against the small of his back. His breathing hitched up and he pulled away – stilled when she rested a cool hand on his flank.

"Is that painful?"

"No." He swallowed convulsively, his gaze locked on the empty doorway. Had Dean lied? Was this the same hospital, the same place where he had almost died – the same place where Fergus Tanner had handed him over for experimentation? Queasy sourness tightened his gut, raised goose flesh on his arms as the smell, the sounds, the memories washed back.

"Any tenderness?" The doctor asked as she pressed down.

Pain spiked through Sam's back, momentarily stealing his breath and he grunted and slid forward, panting softly to ward off the almost overwhelming urge to jump from the table and run. He grit his teeth and closed his eyes as she pressed down again, not painful so much, but intrusive, unwelcome. Like Sandbaum… and Fergus.

He clenched his fists and tried to forget – the pain, the helplessness, the look in their eyes as they watched him struggle to breathe and the pitying condescension when he couldn't. Worst had been Fergus' expression as the slick haired medico had been ordered from the room, told to keep Dean away – a mix of disappointment and smug anticipation. Sam would never forget that look.

"You can sit up now."

Sam opened his eyes and pushed himself up, his hands shaking as he pulled his shirt close around him. He shivered but the doctor seemed not to notice. She made notes on her chart then looked up and smiled, her gaze distant, already considering her next patient.

"I can see no problems, Mr Bowman. But come back in if you experience any more breathing difficulties or have any symptoms that cause you concern."

He nodded, slid off the table and moved to the door, his knees felt weak, his legs numb and unsteady. Dean stood outside, idly picking at the cast on his arm as he scanned the hallway, searching. Sam knew that look, the narrowed gaze, the stiff set to his brother's jaw. The older man was in hunting mode, or damn close to it. Sam slumped against the doorframe and nodded at the doctor as she left the room. He waited for Dean to speak.

"I'd kill to see the look on Fergus' face right about now," Dean said after a moment, his words clipped and serious intent just below the surface. The older man looked across and the glint in his eye spoke volumes. "You look damned good for a dead guy."

Sam went cold. He stared at his brother as Dean watched him, testing, waiting.

"This is the same hospital," Sam breathed as he wrapped his arms around himself. "Christ, Dean, you said it wasn't." He felt an upwelling of angered indignation.

"Technically, I didn't answer the question. You reached a certain conclusion and I didn't correct you."

Dean grinned, but there was no maliciousness in the expression, only concern and something else. Something darker, directed elsewhere, a need for justice, maybe even revenge. It obliterated Sam's anger, made him feel oddly safe. He held eye contact, soaking up the sensation as he clutched the fabric of his shirt between his fingers and clenched at it. He shivered again, cold from the inside out. Aching, as though every muscle and joint had been strained beyond its limit, every cell re-defined. And it had. Dematerialization would do that, he figured.

"It's risky," Sam said. "What if he recognizes us?"

"That's kinda the plan, kiddo. If you're up for it."

Dean's eyes bored into his, seeking permission, the dark eyed look almost pleading. Clearly Dean had major issues with Doctor Fergus Tanner. Sam looked away, uncertain sourness tightening the glands in his mouth and flip-flopping his stomach. He hugged himself tighter, willing the shivering to stop, the exhaustion to fade… the memories to vanish.

They didn't. And wouldn't.

"You seen him yet?" Sam asked.

"No, but he's rostered on for a 2pm start."

Sam glanced at clock on the opposite wall. "That's thirty minutes from now."

"Yup."

"So we could still leave?"

"Yeah, if you want. It's up to you, Sammy."

Sam huffed. "It's not entirely up to me. You're obviously itching to bust his balls."

Dean shrugged and one corner of his mouth twitched. "It's your call, Sam."

Sam blew out a breath and scanned the hall as an undefined sensation raised the hairs on the back of his neck, breached his bared skin, made his heart beat faster. Doctor Fergus Tanner: slicked back hair, glasses, a pressed baby blue suit and cold eyes. Sam remembered the man's eyes, the way the skin crinkled up at the sides as he had laid his suggestion out to the Professor. Oxygen deprivation, Sandbaum would never have thought of it on his own, of that Sam was sure.

Sam's fists clenched and his stomach churned. "We'll stay."

"You sure?"

"Never been surer."

* * *

Fergus Tanner looked like he had seen a ghost. A full on, underwear changing encounter with a banister riding apparition. Dean stood just behind Sam, so close that their elbows touched. The doctor's eyes flicked between them, locking longest on Sam as his mouth opened in a wordless gape. 

Dean remained silent and Sam just stood there, his long arms at his sides and his hands balled into fists. Tension rippled through him, shivers of exhaustion and stress. Dean doubted that Fergus noticed, he was too busy staring at Sam's face, at the blithely innocent mask that the younger man wore.

"But you're dead," Fergus finally blurted out, his face a distinct green color and his cheeks an unhealthy shade of grey.

"Yeah, about that. Got time for a chat?"

Dean withheld a smirk. Sam managed to make it sound like a cordial invitation. Spider to the fly, he thought, his fingers prickling with anticipation as the doctor eyed them both, clearly intending to dissent.

"Thought you'd be curious as to how I recovered," Sam added nonchalantly, "I'm sure Sandbaum would be eager to be updated on my progress. My condition was unique, afterall."

Fergus' fingers twitched and his eyes gleamed. Color slowly returned to his face as he ran a tongue over his thin lips. "Did you go to a different specialist?"

Sam cocked his head to the side and smiled. "Something like that."

Dean resisted the urge to smirk. Sam was good, scarily good. He kept his expression neutral as Fergus weighed it up, his gaze raking over Sam with a predatory gleam. Wondering, no doubt, how he could get Sam readmitted for tests, for further study… for transfer to Boston. He moved fractionally closer, the length of his upper arm against Sam's, all the while he kept the neutral barely there smile in place.

And Fergus latched on, hook, line and sinker.

Ten minutes later, Fergus had found a quiet room, invited them both in and closed the door. The single windowed room looked out into a secluded courtyard and three couches lined the walls. Fergus chose the one by the window, Dean and Sam took the other two.

"So, who did you see?"

Dean leaned back, settled himself on the couch and watched Sam at work.

Sam clasped his hands before him and rested his elbows on his knees, his body leaning forward. "Doctor Tanner, what I will be sharing with you requires a certain level of… faith."

Dean bit back a smirk as Fergus leaned closer, his smarmy slicked hair gleaming in the light that shone through the window. He mirrored Sam's posture, the only difference being the clipboard he rested on his knee, and the pen he clutched between his fingers. The hand trembled with anticipation as he nodded eagerly.

Sam paused, smoothed imaginary creases from the thighs of his jeans. His hands shook slightly, reminded Dean that despite the control the younger man held over Fergus, he was damned close to his physical limits. Soon Sam would crash, and hard, and this hospital would not be the best place for it.

"What I'm about to tell you may seen a little… out there."

Fergus leaned closer, his pen poised.

"Scotty," Sam said, his voice conspiratorially low.

"Scotty?" Fergus wrote it down without taking his eyes off Sam. "Scott….?"

"Beam me up, Scotty."

Dean almost gagged on the laughter that burbled up his throat. He brought one leg up and rested the ankle on his knee, his fingers tight against his calf. His foot tapped the air as his fingers quietly thrummed against the denim.

"Beam me up… Scotty?" Fergus said, his voice lacking inflection. "I'm not sure I understand."

Sam leaned back, extended his arms over his head and clasped them at the back of his neck. The posture screamed dominance and Sam's muscular frame, broad shoulders and corded forearms clearly displayed physical authority. Fergus twitched nervously and his gaze darted between them. Dean arched an eyebrow as the doctor slid back on the seat, the pen now loose in his fingers.

"Maybe it would be best if I arranged a time for you to meet with the Professor and I." He tensed in preparation to stand.

Sam abruptly stood, and the swiftly fluid action pinned Fergus in place, froze him to the couch. The doctor sank back as Sam began to stalk the room – powerful and aggressive – damn near primal. A swell of pride filled Dean's chest as Fergus' gaze tracked Sam's every move. He settled back, enjoying the show as Fergus watched Sam like a stricken rabbit eyeing a circling fox.

"Does the Hippocratic Oath, ring any bells for you?"

Fergus' tongue flicked nervously as he eyed the door. Sam noticed and moved to it. He casually leaned against it, his muscular six foot four frame a frighteningly effective deterrent. He lifted one leg, pressed the foot flat against the door and crossed his arms over his chest as his lips pulled apart in a feigned smile.

"I have patients to attend to," the doctor said hollowly as he fiddled with the clipboard and gripped the pen with close to crushing force. He made no attempt to move.

"Ever heard of the Hippocratic Oath?" Sam asked benignly. When Fergus failed to answer, Sam clicked his fingers and waved them before him. "Wakey wakey, I asked you a question."

"I know what it is," Fergus said, bristling.

"Uh, see that's where I beg to differ. So let's run a refresher for you." Sam started saccharinely. "It goes something like this: I swear by Asclepius, Hygeia and Panacea, and I take to witness all the gods…." He trailed off, cocked his head to the side. "You're glazing over there buddy, so I'll make it easier for you."

His tone changed, deepened, grew harder. "You were my doctor, my well being was your highest priority, and you deliberately betrayed me."

Fergus fished in his pocket, his jaw clenched and a determined edge to his actions as he searched for something. Once he had it out, Dean growled, stretched and snatched it away. "No making phone calls during class."

"You can't do this. This is—"

"An injustice? A betrayal of personal liberty? Unconscionable?" Sam pursed his lips and shot a feigned incredulous look at his brother. "Then what the hell is taking a patient off oxygen for forty three minutes, Fergus? Forty three minutes and twenty seconds." Sam's voice hitched, snagged just at the end. He swiftly turned away and returned to pacing.

Dean leaned forward, watching and waiting, carefully sensing the shifts in his brother's emotional and physical state.

"It was you who called in Sandbaum." Sam said. He jabbed at the air with a sharp, brutal thrust. "It was you stood outside my room while he tortured me."

Sam voice became harder, gritty and deep with venom. His face reddened as he turned again, rapid jerked movements, his words punctuated with forceful grunts.

"See, I remember you suggesting it to Sandbaum. The fucking gleam in your eye, you damn near drooled at the thought of it you sadistic son of a bitch."

Sam stalked back, leaned over the doctor. The older man grimaced, his eyes wide and a thin sheen of sweat glistened on his brow. Sam leaned in until their faces were inches apart.

"Do you have any idea what it feels like to slowly suffocate? To think you're dying. To be watched, to beg and plead and have no-one help you. What do you think that's like?"

Fergus's nostrils flared and he raised one hand as though to attempt to push Sam away. Dean tensed, ready to intervene if the altercation came to blows. But Sam held his ground and Fergus' hand stilled in mid air.

"It's torture," Sam said, seething. Spittle lashed Fergus' face and the older man blinked and grimaced. "And you initiated it. On me. I was your damned patient, and you tortured me!"

Sam shuddered, his voice breaking. Dean grimaced and tensed to stand, but Sam shook his head and waved him back.

"But you missed out on the best bit because Sandbaum sent your sorry ass outside to keep Dean away. If my brother had known what was going on behind those blinds, he would have flattened the damned lot of you."

Fergus' Adam's apple bobbed. He pressed back against the couch, his chin raised in false defiance. His lips moved but no sound came out and his face had gone an odd shade of pale.

Sam, however, did not look much better. The younger man visibly trembled, his eyes a little too wet looking for Dean's liking. Sam had hit the edge, this was now over.

"Hey," Dean said gently as he swiftly stood, caught Sam's arm and pulled him away. "We're done here. He's had enough."

"Fergus forgot the Hippocratic Oath," Sam said as he weakly bucked. "He has a duty to protect his patients. I was his patient and he fed me to the wolves."

"Sammy, I know, but he gets it." Dean glanced at the man who stared at them, one hand raised to his face and an indignant gleam in his eyes. Truth be told, Fergus did not get it and probably never would.

Sam breathed hard, his chest heaving and face flushed. He staggered, slumped forward and Dean caught him. "Sam, not here. C'mon, you can sleep in the car."

Sam stiffened, sniffed and pushed away. He lurched to the door, wrenched it open and seemed to be intending to leave. Instead, he hesitated, then slammed the door shut, crossed the room and smacked both hands palm down on the small coffee table.

"Look," he spat, shaking. "Look at my hands."

Fergus glanced at Dean before he lowered his gaze, his expression unsure, the arrogant gleam gone from his eyes.

"Remember these." Sam raised his left hand and waggled his fingers. "They were cut off. All four of them, less than thirty hours ago."

Fergus' Adam's apple bobbed, and he fidgeted in his seat.

"Now there's not even a mark," Sam hissed. "How the hell do you explain that?"

Fergus stared at Sam's hand, his jaw loose as his eyes flickered with uncertainty. When his focus shifted, it went to the younger man's chest and held there as all remaining color leeched from his face. He recoiled, drew in on himself as it seemed to finally dawn on him that science had not played a part in Sam's recovery, instead something bigger, darker… unexplainable.

Sam straightened, clearly registering the shift. "Now we're done," he said hoarsely as he strode from the room.

Dean shifted on his feet and eyed the doctor who now stared, shell-shocked, at the floor. Eventually he raised his head.

"I should report him for that. Both of you." The idle threat held little heat.

"Not such a great idea, Fergie."

"Why?"

Dean smirked, straightened his jacket and nudged the cell phone across the table. It skittered and almost slid off the edge. Fergus grabbed at it, his hands white knuckled around the small device.

"Let's just say that there are many things that you don't know about. About Sam. About me. About how Sam was healed."

"Is that a threat?"

"Take it however you please, but that thing you did to Sam. Don't do that again. To anyone. Ever."

Fergus flinched and raised his chin in mock defiance. "Why"

"Scotty," Dean said cryptically. "He's watching you, and he's not liking what he sees."

"That's ludicrous. There's no-one watching me," Fergus said, but his voice lacked strength and his eyes scanned a little too quickly, looked into the corners with a touch too much earnestness.

Dean sauntered to the door, strolled out into the hall and checked on Sam. The younger man sat on a bench seat two rooms down, slouched forward, his head in his hands. Dean's chest tightened as he regarded his exhausted sibling. As if aware of the scrutiny, Sam raised his head and weakly smiled. Dean held the eye contact as he gained assurance that Sam was okay, physically and emotionally wasted, but okay. He held up two fingers. "Two more minutes," he said softly.

At Sam's assent, Dean quickly scanned the hallway, noting the absence of foot traffic, before he ducked his head back into the room. Fergus had not moved, glued, it seemed, to the small brown couch, his expression a mix of arrogant uncertainty and barely veiled fear.

"So, you and me, we're on the same page now?" Dean said as he moved closer.

The doctor stood, hugged his clipboard and phone to his chest and tried for an indignant scowl. "It's ludicrous," he muttered, clearly shaken but desperate to hide it. "You both need locking away."

"Not happening, buddy." Dean threw a swift gut punch, hard and sharp, his fist sank into the soft cavern of the older man's stomach. The air whooshed out and Fergus grunted, slumped to his knees and his face turned red as he gasped for air.

Dean breathed hard, his knuckles tingling as he stepped back. Tension rippled across his shoulders, pulled the muscles tight in his back.

"Hurts huh," Dean said as he checked over his shoulder for witnesses. He saw none and turned back, addressed the fallen doctor's oil slicked and perfectly parted crown. "That doesn't even come close to what you put my brother through. You ever try something like that again, to anyone…."

He let the threat hang as he turned on his heel and stalked from the room.

* * *

The drive to the motel passed without conversation. Sam had fallen asleep, his head against the window, arms loosely hugged around himself. He didn't rouse when the car stopped at the motel – the same establishment that they had called home for close on a week. 

Dean considered waking him, using the motel for the night then thought against it – too many memories and too much pain, for them both.

He worked quickly, packed up their belongings, tidied the room and paid the account. He checked Sam's pulse when he returned to the car because his brother had not moved and the stillness churned memories that Dean was ill equipped to manage. But Sam was fine, he stirred a little when touched and Dean pulled away.

Sam woke four hours later, seemingly stiff and sore, but unnervingly quiet and Dean found a motel in the next town that they came to.

"I've got it," he said as Sam grabbed for a bag from the trunk. The younger man faltered and stepped back, dew eyed and pale. Dean brushed past him, set their bags in the room and returned outside. Sam stood at the back of the car, staring into the trunk.

"Where's the weapon's bag?"

He had been hoping to avoid this. "We'll replace it."

"Where is it?"

"Left it in the subway. And I wasn't going back for it."

"Shotgun too?"

"One of them."

"Jesus, Dean, our prints are all over that stuff."

"Yeah, so?"

"Doesn't that bother you?"

"Yes, but what do you want me to do about it?"

"I don't know. Go back," Sam said, his words fizzling out as soon as they came out of his mouth.

Dean arched an eyebrow. "Yup, as I said, we'll replace it."

Sam's mouth pulled down and he seemed to shrink in on himself as he hugged his arms around his stomach.

"Sam, go lie down, you look like hell."

"You think you look any better."

Dean smiled and shrugged. "Touché." He closed the trunk lid, locked the car and headed into the motel room. When he came out of the bathroom, he found Sam standing in the doorway. "You comin' in or are you gonna block the draft with your ass?"

Sam raised weary eyes that shimmered with unshed tears. Dean sucked in a breath and waited.

"Dean, what happened?"

"Which bit?"

"All of it." Sam chuckled but there was only pain in the sound. He moved into the room, and stiffly sat on the edge of the one of the beds. It creaked and dipped under his weight. He restlessly pushed one handed at his thigh then kneaded his fingers in evident distress.

Dean frowned, too easily able to read the lines of fatigue and pain. He retrieved the first aid kit and snagged a blister pack of pills.

"We should get some food," Sam said as he watched Dean with dulled eyes. He kneaded his wrists then rubbed his elbows as he listlessly scanned the room. "Dematerialization sucks," he murmured.

Dean passed him the tablets and a bottle of water. "Muscle aches?" he asked, but he knew the answer in the way Sam fidgeted and restlessly kneaded. "Shower might help."

Sam nodded and took the water and medication, his hands shook as he broke the blister packs and shook out three pills. They disappeared in one swallow.

Dean found a phone directory, picked a pizza place and dialed in a large pepperoni with all the toppings. "It'll be thirty minutes," he said as he hung up the phone.

"You said that Ted killed himself, but there wasn't any blood. So was he even human to begin with?"

"Yeah, he was human, best I can guess." He moved to the bed opposite Sam, sat down and leaned forward, close enough to touch but not too close to crowd. "I'm thinking Melanie took him from the track like she had taken you."

"Into that little space beside the tunnel?" Sam said, his tone stricken.

"Maybe," Dean said.

Sam looked down at his clenched hands, the fingers, all eight of them, unmarked, perfect. Dean swallowed hard as an image of Sam's severed fingers, spewing blood, ripped through his mind.

"It shouldn't have worked. It wasn't possible. I should have died."

Dean bristled and heat sparked his veins. "Sam."

"Logically. Physically. It shouldn't have worked."

Dean understood and he relaxed, moved closer. Their knees touched. The white of his own wrist cast the only visible reminder that it had in fact been real. "I know, but it did and that's all I need."

Sam nodded, his long bangs hiding his eyes and Dean suspected he was crying. Dematerialize a guy, deny him oxygen and effectively torture him – it'd whittle anyone down and Sam had been through hell. Sam finally lifted his hands to his face, wiped at his eyes then abruptly stood. Dean kept his head down, affording privacy to his sibling as Sam retreated into the bathroom and quietly closed the door.

He did not understand it. Not really and it bothered him just as it bothered Sam. Ted had sacrificed himself for Sam, had somehow convinced Melanie to put Sam back on the train and in doing so had obliterated his own and his dead daughter's spirits: had ended it, once and for all. At least that's what Dean hoped. Any other configuration of plausible explanations was someone else's problem.

"You pick the next gig," Dean said around a mouthful of cheesecake, close to an hour later.

Sam lay reclined on the bed, head propped up on pillows as he sleepily channel surfed with pizza greasy fingers. The pain pills had kicked in, that and the hot shower left Sam groggy and relaxed. He quietly belched, rubbed his stomach and flipped to another channel.

Dean withheld a smart ass remark and added, "No planes or trains though." Or anything with a fetish for strangulation, but he didn't say that out loud.

"Okay," Sam said quietly and idly flipped to another channel.

"If it's not over, we don't go back."

Sam glanced at him and slowly nodded. "Okay."

"Someone else can deal with it."

"Okay."

"I mean it Sam. If the bitch isn't gone, and next year she wastes more people on that subway, we're not going back."

"Okay."

"Stop freakin' saying okay."

A smile tucked up one corner of Sam's lips as his gaze roamed, the lids heavy, his eyes glazed. Exhausted, Dean reminded himself, just exhausted. It unnerved him to see Sam so out of it, it reminded him of Sam drugged, wheezing, dying….

He abruptly stood, gathered up the take-out packaging and busied himself. When he finally came to something close to rest, he was seated on the edge of Sam's bed, one leg folded beneath him, the knee against Sam's thigh. Sam's eyes had closed, but his breath had not yet evened out into sleep. Soon it would.

Dean gently extricated the television control from his brother's hand, stilled when Sam caught his fingers and held on. Dean's breath hitched and tears stung his eyes, despite the pain of contact, he did not pull away.

"No planes… or trains," Sam slurred. "And we'll never… go back." His eyes opened, a thin sliver of blue-green beneath the lashes. "And... thanks for not... giving up."

Dean's throat constricted as he gently squeezed Sam's fingers. "I'll never give up, Sammy. Not against dead Trekkie's, not against anything."

Sam sighed, a soft sound of contentment and safety, as his eyes slipped closed. When Dean was sure he was asleep, he gently extricated his fingers from Sam's lax grasp, pulled up the blankets and tucked them in. He hesitated, one hand on Sam's chest as he felt the gentle rise and fall of his brother's breaths – normal, natural... safe.

He would keep Sam safe, always, no matter what – and Sam would do the same for him. It's what they did, what they would always do, no matter what.

- THE END –

_AN: To everyone who took the time to review, my sincerest thanks, your encouragement and support means a lot. And to all those that didn't, but who read (and hopefully enjoyed) the story, thank you for your quiet appreciation. And to Em (A-Blackwinged-Bird), my green-thumbed beta. Thank you doesn't seem to come anywhere near close._


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